


Time Machine

by Ingridarcher



Series: The Second Omnic Crisis [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Comedy, Cyborgs, Drama, Drinking, F/M, Genji self-conscious about his robo-bod, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Lots of plot, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Robot Bands, Sexual Content, Shimada Angst, Shimada family are not nice folks, Vaginal Fingering, cyborg sexual content, lots of cyborgy stuff, punk rock rough and tumble tracer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-07-19 15:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 73,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7367560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingridarcher/pseuds/Ingridarcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the cusp of the second Omnic crisis, Tracer and Genji reconnect years after their time as friends in Overwatch.</p>
<p>Due to the recent reveal that Tracer is canonically gay, this work has been discontinued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The day was warm, with a wide-open, blue sky cut jagged by skyscrapers. Genji strode past dozens of flagpoles, getting stopped at dozens of checkpoints and befuddling dozens of metal-detectors. Zenyatta floated beside him, unperturbed as the UN security officers radioed back and forth, trying to figure out how to screen Omnics through security.

“Didn’t Mondatta ever come here?” Genji asked under his breath.

“Once,” Zenyatta replied calmly, “Until today, he was the only omnic to be asked to the UN.”

“Mm,” Genji answered. As they waited with a guard, Genji looked up at the television screen. A woman with an attractive but severe face turned to stare directly into the camera as she spoke.

“Thanks for that report, Tucker. And now, Lena Oxton, known to most of the world as ‘Tracer’, speaks out about the recent assassination of the Omnic spiritual leader, Tekartha Mondatta. Chris Walker talks to the omnic rights activist and former member of Overwatch, who says she was there - and tried to stop it.”

The camera cut and Lena’s familiar face appeared on the view screen, smiling sadly at a man with a microphone. It had been almost five years, and she still looked just the same.

“Thanks, Zola,” the reporter said, “I’m here on the steps of the United Nations with Lena ‘Tracer’ Oxton, here on the cusp of the important summit to prevent what some are already calling the second Omnic Crisis. Ms. Oxton, do you believe the omnics are ready to wage another war on humankind?”

Lena simpered at the man as he shoved the microphone in her face. “I don’t think it’s the same thing at all. The Omnic Crises was caused by a rogue ‘god program’, something taking over omnic consciousness and compelling them to wage a war. The omnic outrage now is something totally different. Their political leader, the omnic that spoke for them all, was cruelly assassinated. They’re mourning him, and they’re angry, and I think rightfully so.”

The answer was practiced but earnest. Genji was impressed. Tracer had always been a goofball in Overwatch, making light of danger and violence. She spoke her mind without a filter, back then. On the rare occasions Overwatch PR did let her in front of a microphone, they usually regretted it. Now, she seemed so mature and collected up on the screen. There was something somber behind it that made Genji yearn for her to put up two fingers, blow a raspberry and go on a tirade about the “tossers” who killed Mondatta.

“And you say that you were at the rally, and attempted to stop the shooter?”

“Yes,” Lena said, “I tried to warm Mondatta’s security and hold her off as long as I could, until Mondatta got out, but…”

“Is that true?” Genji asked Zenyatta.

“Yes,” Zenyatta said, “Lena Oxton expended great effort to stop Mondatta’s assassin, but it was not to be.”

Genji frowned, looking back up at the screen. Tracer looked almost guilty. He felt a pang of guilt himself - he should have been there to protect Mondatta, not hiding away in Nepal. If he had been there to help Tracer, would Mondatta be alive today? 

Zenyatta’s hand clinked against Genji’s shoulder. “Do not think it,” Zenyatta said, “What we cannot change in the past should only serve to move us to change the future. We are here. It is where we should be.” Genji smiled beneath his helmet. 

“Thank you, Master,” Genji said. The lights on Zenyatta’s forehead bloomed brightly, then faded again. Omnics didn’t have facial expressions, but Genji had learned to interpret their emotions. Excited emotions, like joy, fear, or anger, glowed brightly. Emotions like sadness or boredom made the lights dimmer. Since Mondatta’s assassination, Zenyatta had attempted to remain collected and positive, but his lights had been consistently dim.

Genji looked back up at the screen, but Lena’s interview was over and they had gone back to the severe woman at the newsdesk. Security physically searched them both, and there was some discussion on Zenyatta’s necklace being a weapon or a spiritual item. Ultimately his master relented and left them in the custody of security. Genji, too, left the dragon blade, his tanto, and the clips of shuriken. The guards watched with fascinated disgust as he removed the clips from his arm. 

Genji and Zenyatta walked past security and up the steps. There was a massive crowd gathered outside the gates, surrounded by police in riot gear. One one side, groups held signs that said “Omnic Rights” and “We are all one within in the Iris.” On the other, posters read “Robots were built to serve” and “Scrap ‘em all!” Genji spied a crowd of reporters and a camera crew a ways off. His eyes caught a flash of yellow, and from around the bodies of reporters he saw Tracer, talking in that strange, practiced way to the group.

“Genji,” Zenyatta said. Genji realized his master was far ahead of him.

“Sorry,” he said as Zenyatta floated back towards him.

“You should greet her,” Zenyatta suggested, “You were friends, and it has been many years.”

“It has,” Genji said, but before he could go on, there was a loud yell from the packed crowd behind the gates. He saw the crowd move as one, like a swarm, aimed at him and Zenyatta.

“Omnics shouldn’t be here!” one man yelled.

“The UN is for humans only!” a woman cried. Genji, protectively, put himself between Zenyatta and the crowd. He reached for his tanto at his back, only to realize he didn’t have it.

“The summit is about Omnic unrest! Omnics have a right to be here!” a man in the other crowd insisted.

“Yeah! The Shambali should have a voice here!” called another. The riot police brought out shields as the two crowds turned on one another. Genji felt motion in his periphery and turned quickly, putting up his fists. He realized then it was the reporters running towards them. Genji threw an arm out in front of his Master. Amidst the swarm of reporters approaching to talk to Zenyatta, Genji saw Tracer - looking right at him. Her eyes looked huge. Then, suddenly, he was surrounded by microphones being shoved towards him and Zenyatta, inundated with a barrage of questions about the Shambali, Omnic anger, and the second Omnic crisis. 

UN security, thankfully, pushed through and escorted Zenyatta and Genji to the building. Genji and Zenyatta found their seats. Across the way, Genji spied Dr. Zieglar. She saw him too, and gave a hopeful little wave. Genji nodded to her, but the summit began before they could communicate further.

It went about as well as Genji expected. Many leaders said that Mondatta spoke for peace above all else, and urged the Shambali to remind the Omnics of this. Zenyatta spoke eloquently on behalf of the Shambali, insisting calmly that Mondatta fought not for peace, but fought  _ peacefully _ for the  _ rights _ of Omnics. He asked the leaders that, as much as they insisted the Omnics not to express with violence their rightful outrage, that they should insist their human constituents respond peacefully as well. Some of the leaders were more sympathetic and others had more thinly-veiled warnings and disgust. 

 

When the summit was over, they all retired to a large room where they let in a number of other dignitaries and important persons. When Dr. Zielgar didn't approach him immediately, Genji sought her out to speak with her. Before joining the Shambali, he had been unkind to the woman who had saved his life. Now that he had come to terms with who and what he was, he insisted on making amends. Mercy was kind and gracious, though she didn't have to be. She left her party to stand with Genji and Zenyatta, asking him all about his time in Nepal.

“You were in such a state after we saw you in Numbani,” Mercy said, “We were all...worried about you.” There was a significance to the way she said it that Genji couldn’t place. Mercy smiled awkwardly at him. “I’m just...so glad to see you doing so much better, Genji.”

Genji nodded to her, then tilted his head as a smirk crept across Mercy’s face. “You know...Lena is here,” she said significantly. Genji adjusted his shoulders.

“Mm,” he said, “I saw her on the news.”

“She tried very hard to save Mondatta, from what I understand.”

Genji nodded.

“You should thank her for that,” Mercy leaned in somewhat and raised both eyebrows at him, “Maybe by taking her out for a drink?”

Genji sighed at Mercy’s familiar, purse-lipped, knowing smile. “It’s been five years, Dr. Zieglar. I don’t think she wants-”

“GENJI!” A voice called from across the room, and far too fast, something zipped towards him, then bowled him over onto the floor. He looked up, and Lena Oxton was over him, grinning ear to ear.

“It really is you, isn’t it? It’s not just some jerk in a mask messin’ with me, eh?”

Genji shifted underneath her and said, quietly, “No, it’s me. Hello, Ms. Oxton.”

Tracer laughed and helped him to his feet. “Still way too polite! You definitely are Genji!” As soon as they were up she pulled him into a tight hug. He hesitated a moment, then hugged her back. Her chronal accelerator clanged against his chest, and he could feel the humming sensation against his own power core. It felt oddly nice. After many years in Nepal, he had forgotten the pleasure of physical contact. Omnics didn’t seem to connect that way - Zenyatta did it now and then, but Genji suspected it was only because his Master sensed it was something Genji yearned for. From Tracer and Mercy, it was natural.

“Where have you been for five years?” Tracer demanded, looking up hopefully at him, clutching his arms like he would disappear if she let go.

“W-with the Shambali,” he told her, ”In Nepal, studying under Master Zenyatta.”

Tracer turned and seemed to notice Zenyatta for the first time. “Oh! You’re Zenyatta… You’re the representative from the Shambali!” Her face fell into that new, sad expression Genji hated seeing. “I’m so sorry about Mondatta.” 

Zenyatta bowed his head to her. “We all mourn for him. I was told you attempted to stop the assassin.”

Tracer wet her lips. “Attempted...yeah,” she said to her feet.

“The Shambali extends it’s deepest gratitude. My student, Genji, will give you drinks to express our gratitude. Dr. Zieglar suggested this is a way humans say ‘thank you.’”

Genji’s head shot towards Zenyatta, then spied Mercy behind the omnic covering her mouth to stop from laughing.

“N-no, that’s not-” Genji began, but Tracer interrupted.

“Yeah!” She exclaims enthusiastically, “We gotta go to the pub and you can tell me all about where you’ve been and about the Shambali and everything! Were you in Nepal? Did they let you into the sanctuary?”

Genji hesitated. “Y-yes,” he said, and Tracer squealed with delight. 

“That’s amazing!” She said, “They’ve never let a human in before!”

“I’m...not quite human anymore, Ms. Oxton.”

“You’re human enough to me,” she said. Genji smiled wide. He was sure she had no idea how kind those words were.

Tracer knocked two times on his helmet, and Genji winced. It was loud, and he whispered “Ow...” Tracer didn’t apologize.

“I hate that dumb helmet! I can never guess what kind of face you’re making under there.” She stuck her tongue out at him. 

She turned when someone from across the room called her name. “Oh, damn, I’m supposed to talk to him,” she said, then pulled her cell phone out of a pocket in her jacket.

“Here, put your number in my phone! Then we can meet up later at the pub, aaaand I won't lose you again!” Tracer grinned wide at Genji as she shoved her smartphone in his face. He swallowed, feeling the synthetic muscles in his neck ripple, then tapped his onboard cellular number into her phone. A receptor was built into his skull, so it would connect directly to his ear. Lena took her phone and grinned wide. She leapt on him again, and he felt his chest clang against her chronal accelerator. He hesitated, and hugged back. 

Genji bowed to Tracer as she waved and skipped off to talk to the man, whoever he was. Genji felt, more than saw, Dr. Angela Zieglar side-eying him.

“What?” He asked her, his indignant expression hidden behind his face mask.

“Please, did you think I would forget?” Mercy leaned in conspiratorially, “You used to look at her like that back in Overwatch too.”

Genji huffed. Zenyatta floated up beside him.

“Look at her like what?”

Mercy leaned in to Zenyatta.

“Our Genji has a thing for Ms. Lena Oxton,” Mercy teased.

“I don't,” Genji insisted, but found himself studying Tracer’s bright expressions as she talked to the man across the room. Mercy rolled her eyes at his denial.

“What do you mean by...thing?” Zenyatta asked, curiously.

“You know,” Mercy said, then finished under her breath, “a _ crush. _ ”

Genji should have known what was coming, but he was still trying to steal glances at Tracer. 

“Crush,” Zenyatta said in his parsing voice, “A hidden desire for another. An undivulged romantic attraction. Genji, you have an undivulged romantic attraction to Lena ’Tracer’ Oxton?”

Genji hadn't panicked in a long time, but in that moment, surrounded by reporters with open mics and important dignitaries who all knew the name “Tracer”, Genji was in a full blown panic. He shoved his hand over Zenyatta’s speaker.

“Master! Keep it down,” he hissed.

“Ah. Yes,” Zenyatta said in a muffled voice, lifting one finger, “I understand, it is meant to be a secret.”

Genji turned and realized they were starting to attract attention. He adjusted and moved his hand from Zen’s speaker.

“He’s, um, very wise,” he said to no one in particular, and felt flushed when he saw Lena was looking over at them as well. Mercy was no help at all, standing on the sidelines and giggling under her hand. Genji sighed.

“And what and you ‘bots up to?” 

Genji turned towards the voice. He was a tall, thin man with a wrinkled face and receding hairline. He looked from Genji, to Zenyatta, to Mercy.

“Dr. Zieglar,” he said, “I’ve asked you and asked you, but I must ask you again to come speak at the University about your medical work. It doesn’t have to be the Valkyrie suit, it can be anything you want. You could even bring this,” he gestured at Genji, “to present. I don’t support cyber-integration, of course, I’m more a fan of bioprinting and cell regeneration myself, but I suppose it could be,” he looked at Genji and showed his teeth, “interesting.”

“I will not come to your university, and I’m certainly not going to parade Genji around like some science project, Professor Lovings.”

The man, Professor Lovings, sneered. “Britain would be in your debt. I know a lot of important people in the British Nationalist party, Ms. Zieglar.” The man gestured across the room. One of the people he’d indicated seemed to have cornered Tracer into an unpleasant conversation. Genji heard Mercy and Professor Lovings’ conversation, but he couldn’t help but watch Tracer like a hawk.

“I have no desire to know your friends, either, Professor. And it’s  _ Doctor  _ Zieglar.”

“Ah yes, of course, my apologies,  _ Doctor _ . I always mess that up, you know,” Lovings said, “Well, I’m very sorry we won’t see you at the University,  _ Doctor _ , it would have been such a joy for the students.” He followed Genji’s gaze across the room to Tracer.

“Ah, it seems Ms. Oxton is having a spirited chat with a party member now. Ms. Oxton’s a lovely girl, I suppose. Of course, I wish she would consider the company she keeps. Befriending omnics and…” the man sneered and looked Genji up and down, “whatever you are, it doesn’t set a good example for young girls in Britain.”

For a moment, seeing how red Mercy got lessened the sting of the man’s words. “Professor Lovings, I will not have my friends spoken of in such a v’ay!” Like always, when she was angry, Mercy’s voice got higher and her accent got thicker. “Get out of my sight! I don’t v’ant to hear from you or your...your  _ University  _ ever again!”

Heads turned as Mercy’s voice got shriller, and the hall was suddenly a lot quieter than it had been before. Lovings adjusted the cuffs on his jacket.

“Certainly,” he told her. “Good day.”

Professor Lovings walked away, and the room broke into whispers. Genji spied Tracer across the room, looking on with the woman she’d been talking to earlier. He felt a flood anger and shame fill him. “I'm going to go,” he told Zenyatta.

“No, Genji, please,” Mercy begged, taking him by the arm. Genji slid free of her gentle grip.

“No, I...think this will go easier without me. Enjoy the conference, Dr. Zieglar. Master.” Genji nodded to Mercy and Zenyatta, then folded into the background, past security, and out into the New York air.


	2. Singularity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracer insists Genji join her at a local bar, but when he gets there he finds trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get hype to meet the best character of the story in this chapter. Also get hype for drunk Tracer.  
> Still having trouble nailing down Genji's voice(as in, speech patterns). Anyone who writes him and has any suggestions please hit me with 'em.  
> Posting this from my phone so some formatting is missing, I might fix it later if I'm not too lazy but I'm pretty lazy so no promises.

Genji practically stealthed out of the UN. There was a crowd of anti-omnic rights protesters outside and the last thing he wanted was to have to defend himself. Anti-omnic protesters getting hurt or killed by the cyborg ally of the Shambali was not what Zenyatta, or the world, needed right now. After stopping at security to retrieve his weapons, Genji got to his and Zenyatta’s hotel room and sank into the floor. Omnic hotel rooms were cheap - they had no beds or chairs, just charge stations and a standing desk. Genji could do fine there, but he wouldn’t mind a bed to sleep in for the remaining human pieces of his anatomy. He thought for a moment about Tracer’s offer, then thought for another moment about Tracer’s bed, and shook it off immediately.  
He changed the view in his visor to his VR phone and eyed the photos folder. Buried in a few folders were the old pictures from when he was in Overwatch. He opened them and started scrolling through. He found the big panoramic of when Winston was inducted; one of him and Reyes; a selfie Tracer had wrangled him into taking. She was making a goofy face, and he looked like he wasn’t sure where the camera was. Genji smiled. Every picture was joyful - Genji never remembered his time in Overwatch as fondly as it looked in the photos. He had been so consumed by his vendetta against Hanzo, that he never appreciated the Overwatch agents befriending him, accepting him for what he’d become even before he’d accepted himself.  
He turned on the news again and plugged in his power core. He generally got enough power to run from solar energy and the food he (rarely) ate, but it was always good to have some in reserves. Genji sat cross-legged on the ground and his body went into the low-power trance - not quite asleep, but he saved energy by zoning out. At some point, Zenyatta called him to be escorted back. On their walk home, the cell number in Genji’s ear rang again.  
“Hello?” he answered.  
“Genjiii!” squealed Tracer's excited voice over the line, “You’ve got to come out to the pub, luv! We’re havin’ a great time, and you’re misshing it! You left so early, I barely got to shay a thing to you! Come out, come out!”  
Tracer was obviously drunk. Genji felt a pang of worry. Tracer could take care of herself in a fight, even intoxicated, but sometimes she was too trusting. “Is Dr. Zieglar with you?” he asked.  
Tracer blew a loud raspberry over the phone. “Oh, I see, luv. You wanna see _Angie_ and not me.”  
“That is not-” he protested immediately, “I mean, are you by yourself?”  
“Nah, I’m with some mates I met at the omnic rights group after the summit. Say hello, everyone!” A mass of voices cheered on the other line. Genji frowned.  
“What bar are you at?”  
“Singularity!” she said excitedly, “Come out and have some drinks, luv!”  
In the back of his mind, Genji was searching the GPS for the bar. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he couldn’t get drunk. “I am on my way. Do not leave,” he told her. She blew another raspberry at him.  
“Don't tell me wot to do!” Tracer yelled over the phone, “Now come on, luv, show up! Everyone wantsh to meet you!”  
Genji sighed. The last thing he wanted after the summit today was attention, but he _did_ want to see Tracer. Another, more paranoid side remembered his younger days in clubs and bars. He’d spent almost as much time chaving off creeps with tentacle-hands for the drunk girls as he did _meeting_ girls, back then. Then again, they overlapped a lot - stepping in for the girls usually won him some points. Being handsome and rich didn't hurt his chances either. Those times were so long ago that they didn't feel real anymore.  
Genji hung up with Tracer and pulled on a hooded tracksuit, not to keep warm in the cool New York night, but to hide his synthetic body. It was one of the only pieces of clothing he owned anymore. Zenyatta was hovering peacefully in sleep-mode. His master would be alright on his own.  
New York was surprisingly easy to navigate. The streets were numbered in order, so even without his internal GPS he was sure he could have found the address. The bar was off a side-street, on a block with a dozen other bars. The name, “Singularity”, was written in a futuristic font, and the music thumping out was accompanied by wifi ‘lyrics.’ This was an omnic-friendly bar.  
Omnics spoke aloud to humans, but they didn't communicate to one another through speech. They essentially traded fast-paced lines of code to one another over wifi. Genji was designed to receive and transmit these signals to some extent, though he was not very good at it. He tended to parse code sent to him very slowly, as he didn't read code natively like Omnics did. At the same time, via his robotic background systems, he tended to transmit his private thoughts unconsciously. This was why, often, it felt as if the Omnics in Nepal, and Zenyatta especially, could read his thoughts.  
He sighed and walked to the doorman, who upon seeing his mechanical hands proudly proclaimed that at this bar, Genji didn't have to dress in clothes to try and fit in with humans. Genji didn't have the heart to tell the doorman he _was_ human - or, at least, used to be.  
The band was loud, and Genji’s synthetic ear adjusted its sensitivity to avoid damage from the rumbling beat. On the stage, the singer and guitarist were human, playing instruments. The other three members, Omnics, were running the drumbeat, bass, keyboard and lyrical code natively. Even at the club the mood was somewhat somber. Many were comforting each other. The band made multiple references to Mondatta during their songs, both in lyrics and lyrical code. The line for the bar was long - not common at omnic bars since Omnics didn't drink.  
Genji almost missed Tracer. He had been searching the crowd for her, weaving between people, trying not to be seen. He barely caught a flash of yellow as a tall man lead her towards the door. Leading was generous; he was more carrying her because she was too drunk to walk. Genji pushed past the crowd to catch up to them.  
“Ms. Oxton,” he thrummed behind her. The man turned to face him.  
“Your autograph will have to wait,”he said, “We’re going to my place for a nightcap.” The man grinned in a way Genji had seen many men grin before. He spied the man’s hand on Tracer’s waist, and it reminded him of an octopus tentacle. Tracer’s head was down, and she was mumbling.  
“She should not have any more to drink. I am going to take her back to her hotel room,” Genji told the man coolly. “She can call you in the morning when she is better.”  
“Who ish that?” Tracer asked to the air, squinting at Genji. He dipped his head.  
The man smirked at him roguishly. “Yeah, who the hell are you? Look, man, I’ve been buyin’ the hero here her drinks all night. She likes me, understand?”  
“Yeah! This is me mate from the demonstration! OMNIC RIGHTS! Whoa-” Tracer had thrown her arms up in the air, and subsequently toppled forward into Genji. He helped her stand.  
“GENJIII!” she cried excitedly when she saw his face under the hood, “You made it, luv! I'm sho happyyyy.” She hugged him. The tall man with her glowered at him.  
“You're that guy she called,” the tall man said. When Genji looked up, the man cocked his head.  
“Whoa! What model are you?” he asked.  
“Custom,” Genji snapped, annoyed, “Ms. Oxton, I am going to take you back to your hotel.”  
“Noooo!” Tracer protested, “Genji, luv, it's been so long. You’ve got to stay and drink with me! MORE DRINKS!” Tracer threw her hands in the air and fell forward against Genji again. Genji carefully put his hands on either of her shoulders and helped her to stand again.  
“You heard the lady,” the tall man said smugly, grabbing Tracer by the wrist, “She wants to stay.”  
An unwarranted rage built up in Genji’s chest when this stranger wrenched Tracer’s arm. Unconsciously, hands down, Genji flicked his wrist, and three shuriken slid up through the back of his hand. In the same instant, Tracer disappeared.  
Genji’s eyes followed the blue trail backwards about 4 meters, but almost as soon as she was gone, she jumped forward again. With the accelerated momentum, she landed a punch hard enough to knock the tall man on his ass.  
“Grab me like that again and see what ‘appens!” Tracer yelled at his prone body, stumbling to keep her balance after the quick movement. She staggered and grabbed her stomach.  
“Ooh...that was too fast,” Tracer said from the back of her throat, “aaand here it comes-” Tracer doubled over and promptly vomited on the floor. The crowd in the bar hissed and the band stopped. Genji moved up and helped Tracer stand.  
“Are you laughing at me?” Tracer gurgled at him.  
“Yes,” Genji said, laughing.  
“I’ll punch you too!” She knocked on his helmet again.  
“Ow…” Genji said, but behind his mask, he was still smiling. The band’s human singer praised Tracer for being ‘hardcore af’ and went on with the song. In similar sentiment, the keyboard Omnic spat out a dissonant, inelegant four-loop declaring “Tracer” as the variable. Tracer paused.  
“I puked on the floor,” she told him.  
“I know,” Genji said.  
“I gotta help clean it up or Greg’ll eat me alive,” Tracer whined.  
“I will help,” Genji assured her, “You should sit down and drink water.”  
“Okaaay…” Tracer droned as Genji found her a chair behind the bar, asking for a glass of water and a mop. A spindly man with a shaved head and tattoos came out from the back room with a broom and spray bottle. Some of the security guards came in to block the area off and pick the tall man up off the floor.  
Genji asked to help and the bald man waved him off. “I got it. This chemical shit makes it easy.”  
“Hey Greg,” said Tracer, drinking sips from a glass of water.  
“Hey, Lena,” the man answered back before looking up at Genji. “You're that cyborg kid that used to be in Overwatch, ain’tcha? About time you showed up, she's been talkin’ about you all night. In between toasting to Mondatta and the Iris and all that.”  
Genji blinked behind his mask. “Really?”  
The bald man, Greg, grinned and nodded.  
“I should not have come. I made trouble,” Genji said, looking back at Tracer. Greg looked pointedly at the dazed, tall man Tracer had slugged.  
“I like when people get in trouble in my bar,” Greg said in his scratchy voice, “I think people get in better kinds of trouble out in public than they do in private.”  
“Yes, but-” Genji protested. Greg put up a hand.  
“Lena put up a good chunk of change to help me start this joint at a time when holdin’ hands in public with my omnic husband coulda gotten one or both of us killed. Far as I'm concerned, she can puke wherever she wants. Just get her back to her hotel safe, is all I ask.”  
Genji smiled and nodded sharply at him. “Mm,” Genji said, thanked Greg, and walked back to Tracer. He made her drink the rest of her water before leaving the club, apologizing again to Greg. They circled the block as Tracer told him about her night - Genji was trying to get her to tell him which hotel she was staying in. Finally, he had her hotel in his GPS, and they made their way back. On the subway train, Tracer dozed briefly on Genji’s shoulder.  
The front-desk clerk shot the pair an odd look as Genji half-carried Tracer through the quiet hotel lobby. It was another struggle outside the elevator, trying to get her to remember her room number. Eventually Tracer handed him her key, which had the number written on the sleeve.  
Genji got Tracer into bed and made her drink another glass of water. She insisted he sit on the bed with her despite his protests. When he’d sat, cross-legged, beside her, she told him more about that evening. It was clear she had found any excuse to do a toast to something.  
“You put my past days to shame, Ms. Oxton,” Genji said warmly, “I do not remember you going out so much when you were an Overwatch agent.”  
Tracer leaned against him. “Not usually. Just...didn’t want to think about things for a bit, eh?” Tracer laughed and smiled, but both were hollow. Genji put his arm around her when he knew he shouldn’t, but being so close to her, he realized again how he’d missed real, physical contact. When Tracer spoke again, her voice cracked.  
“I couldn’t save him,” Tracer said against Genji’s shoulder. Faintly, he could feel the wetness of tears through the fabric. “I tried, but…”  
Genji rubbed her back. “Do not say that,” he insisted, but she cried anyway.  
“She killed him, and I don’t even know why,” she sobbed, “Why would she? He never hurt anyone. He just wanted to do good.” Genji had no answer for her. Tracer had ID’d Amelie, now code named Widowmaker, as Mondatta’s killer, but no one had been able to successfully track the assassin down. Genji knew that Amelie and Tracer had been close before Amelie killed Gerard, and Genji hadn’t put together how that added layer might affect her.  
Unsure of what to say, Genji only repeated the same mantra over and over - it wasn’t her fault, at least she was there and tried to stop it - but nothing seemed to help except time. Eventually her sobs were reduced to sniffling. Tracer looked up at him with wet eyes, and knocked on his helmet again.  
“Ow…” he whispered, and she smiled.  
“Hate that stupid thing,” Tracer said, “Wish I could see your face. Always wondered what you looked like under there.” She brought her face, and then her lips, to his neck, and it felt _good_. It was nostalgic and novel all at once. Genji had felt this feeling time and again when he was young, when he took lovers often, but since his body had changed he hadn’t been with anyone. There were any number of reasons for it - he was uncomfortable in the new body for a long time, feeling more like a weapon in Overwatch’s hands than a man. He had tried a few times when he’d been out in the world, with human and omnic alike, but either he or the other individual ended up too uncomfortable to continue. The Omnics in the Shambali did not value physical contact, and soon that felt normal to him. This, the feel of lips on his pulse - the lips of a girl he knew and liked well, felt somehow both new and familiar. Now that it was happening he realized just how much he’d longed for it. Gently, reluctantly, Genji uncoupled Tracer from his neck.  
“You should go to sleep,” he told her. Tracer’s disappointment was written clearly on her features, and he almost pulled her over him that instant just so she wouldn’t feel rejected. Genji didn’t know how to explain to her alcohol-clouded brain that in other circumstances he would happily welcome her affection, that he yearned for it, that it was _very_ difficult to refuse her. Genji thought of the tall man grabbing Tracer’s wrist and insisting she go home with him. As much as Genji desired what she had initiated, he refused to be that man.  
“I will ask Dr. Zieglar to check on you in the morning,” he said, getting up from the bed and realizing he’d already let this get a little too far.  
“No, Genj, don’t go,” Tracer cried mournfully, “I won’t do anything else, I’m sorry, it was...stupid. Stupid!” She shook her head, Her eyes were still wet. Hesitating, he lifted a hand to her cheek.  
“I am not worried about what _you_ will do, Lena,” Genji said. Tracer paused, then smiled.  
“Hey,” Tracer said, “You called me Lena.”  
“Did I?” Genji asked, “Sorry....”  
“Don’t be,” Tracer said, smiling, “Look, luv, it’s late and, what with the summit and all that, there might be a lot of drunk wanks out tonight looking to bust up anyone who even looks a little bit Omnic. Stay here, it’ll be safer. You can have the bed and I'll sleep on the sofa.”  
“I can take care of myself, Ms. Oxton,” Genji laughed. Her face soured when he called her “Ms. Oxton” again.  
“Still,” Tracer insisted. “Please?”  
Genji tilted his head at her.  
“Pleeeease?” she asked again, a slight smile at the edge of her lips.  
Genji sighed.  
“Pleeeeeeeeease!” she squeaked. Genji smiled behind his mask, shaking his head.  
“Alright, but I will stay on the couch. You keep the bed; you need to get to sleep. You can tell me about last night tomorrow.”  
“Deal!” she whispered, then buried herself under the covers, “Night night, luv…” Genji smiled, then sat himself down on the hotel room’s tiny couch.  
As Genji’s mind quieted and his functions went into sleep mode, he muttered, “Good night...Lena.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guess who the best character in the story is? It's Greg. Greg is the best. Greg will become That Character that started as a one-off and ends up showing up all the time for no other reason than I want to write him.


	3. Spicy Ramen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracer awakes from her night of drinking and attempts to remember the previous night's events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perspective swap. Not a lot of plot movement in this one but it's fun to write little scenes like this.

Tracer didn’t want to open her eyes. She woke up with a traveling blossom pain in her skull, and a nauseous pang in her stomach. If she moved the world might end.

The sun lanced in from the window, hurting her head more. There were soft sounds of shuffling and clinking that, after a few painful moments, Tracer recognized as footsteps. Someone else was in the room with her. Panicked, Tracer’s eyes shot open and she gasped. She immediately regretted it and squeezed her eyes closed again.

“Are you feeling okay?” a soft, low, synthetic voice asked. Tracer winked open one eye and saw a sleek, familiar robotic body. 

“G-Genji?” she asked. Talking hurt too. “Am I dreaming?”

Genji chuckled. “Is it common for me to be in your dreams?” he asked smoothly. She flushed. He was at the microwave punching in numbers; the beeping hurt her ears.

“Loud,” she whined, “Bright.” The microwave hummed as its numbers counted down from 60 seconds. Genji walked past the foot of the bed, and closed the curtains. 

“Sorry,” he said, “I was charging.”

“Mmmm…” she groaned under the covers.How did he get in here, she wondered? “Did you spend the night?”

A pause, then Genji said “You don’t remember?”

The pang in Tracer’s stomach worsened. She  _ didn’t  _ remember.

“You asked me to stay…” Genji said. She peeked out from under the covers. The green lights of his synthetic body glowing in the now-dark room. “I slept on the couch,” he assured, “I tried to leave but you told me to wait until the morning.”

Tracer tried to focus. Her mind swam with vague memories of stumbling back home with him, and being at the elevator, and sitting with him on the bed...of him pulling away from her. Telling her he’d have Mercy check in with her in the morning. That had annoyed her, she remembered. She  _ had _ asked him to stay.

“What else happened?” Tracer asked. The microwave beeped, and she winced, retreating back under the covers.

“You punched someone,” Genji told her. She definitely didn’t remember that.

“Really? Where?” she asked.

“In the face,” Genji said jovially, retrieving the object from the microwave.

“You know what I mean!” she yelled, then the pain in her head hissed stronger. Genji chuckled. He was pouring hot water into a cup.

“At the bar you invited me to. Um… Syn-chro-nicity? Um… Sin-gu-larity?” His voice suddenly gained a thick accent - he must have been actually speaking the word in English, not speaking Japanese that was being translated over her earpiece. The soreness in her ear meant Tracer had forgotten to take it out the night before.

“I punched someone at Greg’s bar?” Tracer croaked.

“He deserved it, if that helps,” Genji said.

“Greg didn’t deserve a fight in his bar,” she groaned, “Not the night of the UN summit.”

“Not him. The man you hit, he deserved it.” Genji put down a teacup and plastic to-go container on the nightstand. “Get up. Eat, drink. You’ll feel better.”

“Uh-uh,” she protested, hiding under the covers, “If I move I’ll die.”

Genji chuckled again. “I do not think it’s that bad. Come on.”

Tracer dared to peer out into the din. A bottle of aspirin with a receipt crumpled next to it, a chipped porcelain cup full of steaming liquid, and a noodle-filled plastic container with two chopsticks sticking out of it sat on the nightstand.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Turmeric tea and spicy ramen,” Genji told her. He retrieved the chair from the hotel room’s desk, “Foolproof hangover cure. Trust me, I had  _ many, many _ hangovers when I was young.” Genji set the chair down next to the bed and sat down, facing her.

Tracer reluctantly pulled herself up to sit up in bed. Her stomach did a somersault and she groaned. The ramen noodles pack in the plastic container looked like brains. “I can’t eat it,” she moaned, “I’ll puke it up!”

Genji nodded sharply. “That is what you are supposed to do,” he said. Tracer groaned again. Genji hesitated, then put a hand on her shoulder. “Start with the tea and take something for your headache to start.”

Tracer stuck out her bottom lip and groaned again, reaching for the pill bottle and screwing the lid off. She took two, and washed them down with the tea. The instant she tasted the tea, she made a face and stuck her tongue out. Genji laughed.

“It tastes like dirt!” she complained. Genji shrugged.

“Yeah. It does,” he admitted, “But it will help.” Tracer shot him a big frown and took another reluctant sip. Genji nodded.

“So what else happened, besides me punching a guy who totally deserved it?” Tracer asked him. Genji’s green lights dimmed then bloomed, reflecting faintly against his metallic body.

“You puked on your friend Greg’s floor,” Genji told her.

“No!” She gasped. “Oh no! Poor Greg, did I help clean it up at least?”

“We both offered, but he wouldn't let us,” Genji told her. She groaned and flopped back in the bed. “Drink your tea,” Genji insisted, “Have some noodles.”

“You're meeeean,” she whined, “I feel like rubbish, you’ve got to be nice to me.” Genji laughed at her. His laugh was soft, and soothed her head a little.

“This is nothing. Keiko used to grab me by the back of the head and drag me to the ramen shop,” Genji told her, “You need tough love when you have a hangover, otherwise you will let yourself feel bad all day.”

Tracer pouted about that, but had no particular comeback. After a long pause, she asked, “Who’s Keiko? A girllll?” She smirked at him. Genji’s helmet, as usual, made him seem stone-faced. Tracer hated that damn helmet. For the thousandth time, she wondered what he looked like under there. 

“Yes, my cousin,” he told her. “She was my best friend, since I was 9 or so. She was my party friend, my, um…” Genji paused, scratching the back of his head. The translator didn’t click on when he said, with a thick accent, “Wing-man.” He switched back to Japanese, and the translator kicked in again. “We always went to bars and clubs together. Compete over drinking, pranks, girls, like this.” 

Tracer grinned. “Sounds like someone I’d get along with!” she said.

Genji paused, and looked down at his hands. “We have not seen each other in...a long time.”

Tracer bit her lip. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up bad stuff, luv,” she said. Genji shook his head.

“Eat,” he told her. Tracer puffed her cheeks out in displeasure, eying the noodles reticently. She wasn’t sure if Genji was upset or not. Sometimes he was just terse, but without facial expressions, she couldn’t really tell. For years, Tracer had thought the helmet  _ was _ Genji’s face - Mercy had to tell her otherwise. In fact, Mercy had told her, the lower half of the visor was not part of his design initially - Genji had asked for it. Tracer burned with curiosity to see what he looked like under it. It had to be bad for him hide his face all the time.

Tracer took up the chopsticks and pushed the noodles around a bit. The broth was pink with spices and had a sheen of oil swimming on top. She puffed her cheeks up at the halved, soft-boiled egg. Just looking at it made her queasy. Finally, she grabbed a bundle of noodles and popped it in her mouth. 

“Spicy!” she cried with her mouth full, and almost spit it out. She swallowed it fast just to get it off her tongue. “Stop laughing! What’d you put in this stuff, nuclear waste?” Tracer stuck her tongue out and fanned it with her hand. Genji, despite her protests, did not stop laughing.

“It has to be spicy,” he told her. She stuck her lip out at him, and at his insistence, slurped up some more of the noodles. Genji was, strangely, easier with her now than she ever remembered him being. She could always make him laugh, but in Overwatch, and even yesterday at the UN, he had always been somewhat aloof, even mysterious. Now he seemed warm and friendly. It would have been more charming if he wasn’t making her eat a pile of way-too-spicy noodles while she felt like someone was simultaneously begging pots on her head and punching her in the stomach. She slurped up some more noodles.

“So what else happened last night? I remember...bits and pieces.” Tracer shook her head. She thought again of the fuzzy memories she had - Genji sitting on the bed beside her. Had his arm been around her? Genji looked down at his folded hands.

“I was not there the whole time. You called me, and you were very far along by the time I arrived,” Genji told her, “You had met some Omnic Rights Activists after leaving the UN and gone to the bar with them.”

“I do remember that part, yeah. I invited a bunch out to Greg’s, figured the business and crowd would be good. What about this guy I slugged? Was he some Nationalist who came in makin’ trouble?”

Genji didn’t answer her immediately. “Drink the broth,” he said. Tracer puffed up her cheeks.

“But that’s the spicy part,” she whined.

“I know,” Genji said, “But it has the oil in it.”

Tracer groaned and stared at the container. 

Genji sighed. “I’ll go back and get you something milder,” he said, resigned, and stood up. Tracer reached out and grabbed his hand.

“No, it’s good,” she told him, “I like spicy stuff.”

Genji sat back down. “I thought I had remembered wrong.”

“Nah,” she said, smiling. “I’m just a big baby when I feel rubbish. Ask Winston, he had to take care of me when I got the flu In Africa, do you remember?”

Genji chuckled. “I do. You showed up to the Numbani negotiations and you looked very pale.”

“And Commander Morrison was giving that speech about justice or whatever and in the middle of it I fell asleep,” she laughed. Genji put his head in his hand. 

“He didn’t notice right away so he kept giving the speech,” Genji chuckled, “and people were starting to laugh. He go so angry!” 

“In my defense, it was a pretty boring speech,” Tracer cackled, “Ah, man, Morrison... He didn’t deserve half of what we put him through.”

Their mood dropped a little. Jack’s death had hit them all hard, but it was years gone now. It was a kind of relief to remember the good times. As their laughter died down, she realized Genji was looking at her. Still, she couldn’t know what kind of expression he had behind the visor. Another memory from the night earlier came up, so blurry she wasn’t sure it was real. Her face was in his neck, the feeling of his electric pulse on her lips, then he pushed her away; tried to leave. Was it real? Suddenly, Tracer wondered if he had tried to leave because she’d made him uncomfortable. She realized she was still holding his hand, and released it. 

“Is something wrong?” Genji asked. Tracer opened her mouth to just ask, then stopped herself. What if she asked and it _ hadn’t _ happened?  _ Is it common for me to be in your dreams?  _ She flushed.

“Nah,” she said, taking another small slurp of noodles instead of looking at him, “So you never answered. Who’s this guy I hit?”

Genji didn’t reply right away. “He had been drinking with you,” Genji said cryptically. Tracer pushed her brows closer together.

“Yeah?” she asked, puzzled. Now it was Genji’s turn to avoid her gaze.

“I said before, you had already drank a lot by the time I got there,” Genji said, “He…was taking you back to his home.”

Tracer’s mouth made an “o” of sudden understanding.

“I know it was not my place,” he began.

“I don’t remember at all,” she said, shaking her head.

“You are very capable of caring for yourself and making your own decisions, I just…”

“No, it’s alright,” she insisted.

“I’m sure if you wished to find him again, you could.”

“No thank you!” she said with enthused annoyance. Genji’s posture relaxed. “Why’d I punch him, though?” she went on, “Was he forcing me to go with him?”

“Not at first,” Genji said, “I said I thought you should get back to your hotel for the night. He thought you should come with him, and he grabbed your arm.”

Tracer puffed her cheeks out. “What a wank!” she said. She did not like being grabbed or told to do anything. In Overwatch, she’d had a lot...a  _ lot _ of conversations with Jack about learning to take orders. She was surprised Genji even got her to go back to the hotel if she didn’t want to go.

“Hey, Genj...thanks, really, for all of it,” Tracer said, smiling, “If you hadn’t showed up, I don’t know what would have happened.”

Genji shook his head. “I am sure any number of others would have helped you,” Genji told her. Tracer looked down at the chipped mug and plastic container on her nightstand. She thought about the foggy memory of Genji pushing her away.

“Not sure that’s true,” she said, then looked up at him. “I’m real glad to see you again, Genji.” Tracer smiled. She couldn’t tell if that feeling in her stomach was nausea or nervousness.

“I am as well, Ms. Oxton,” Genji said in a soft voice. Tracer groaned loudly and rolled her whole head back. It hurt her brain to do it.

“Awww, Genj, come on! I’ve told you a BILLION times to call me Lena,” she said, reaching for the chopsticks and making a sour face, eying the noodles and trying to will herself to eat them.

“...Really?” Genji asked her. Tracer turned and blinked at him. Genji always laughed off her request and kept on calling her “Ms. Oxton".

“W...well, yeah,” she said, puzzled. Genji looked down at her hands, then back up at her face.

“Okay,” he said, and nodded. “Lena.”

Tracer felt very warm very suddenly. She wasn’t sure what she expected it to sound like, but not like that. She thought again of the vague memories from the night before.  _ I am not worried about what  _ you _ will do, Lena.  _ Tracer swallowed a lump in her throat. She was dizzy. She leaned forward, and Genji leaned in as well. Her body spasmed hard.

“Ohh, here it comes,” Tracer garbled as a wave of nausea crashed over her. She blinked forward, past Genji, and into the hotel bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nausea ruins everything.  
> Keiko, if you guys ever meet her, is another favorite side-character of mine from a yet-unposted Genji story I'm working on. Like Greg, she may also show up for no other reason than she's fun to write.


	4. Four Red Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Zieglar shows up and drives a wedge between Genji and Tracer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big Sis Zieglar Strikes Again. This will be the last of the puking in this story guys...probably. I will actively avoid it, at least.

The ramen was just as spicy on its way up. Tracer felt dizzy. Genji was knocking on the door and asking if she was alright. Tracer couldn’t really answer. “D-don’t come in!” was all she managed to gasp out in between bouts of her stomach spasming.

“I’m going to call Dr. Zieglar,” Genji insisted from the other side of the door. Tracer opened her mouth to protest, but got hit with another wave of nausea. Between gagging, the sound of Genji on the phone. Tracer groaned, then threw up again.

Finally, the worst was over, and Tracer pulled herself from the floor by the lip of the sink. She groped for the faucet handle, found it, then twisted on the cold water. It was icy and satisfying on her flushed face. Outside - a knock, then the hotel room door opening, then Mercy breaking into a tirade.

“I can’t believe you!” Mercy snapped in a not-quite-hushed-enough whisper, “When I said you should take her for a drink this is NOT what I meant.” Tracer furrowed her brow. Mercy told Genji to do _what_?

“I did not-” Genji began. Mercy cut him off.

“And then you _stayed_ the _night_ ? I had heard people say you were a playboy vhen you were young,” Mercy huffed, “but I never thought you’d stoop so low as to drink a girl sick and take advantage of her! You have some brass balls to even still be in this _city_ much less still in this room!”

The accent was coming out - Mercy was _mad_. Tracer had a feeling there was a great deal of finger-wagging happening on the other side of that door. Tracer, leaning over the sink, joked quietly to herself in the mirror. “Actually they’re made of reinforced steel, but you’d know that, wouldn’t ya?” Tracer giggled at her own joke then groaned again, doubling over. She would rescue Genji from Mercy’s wrath as soon as she felt like she could move again.

“And she is your _friend_ !” Mercy went on, “For _years_ ! I can’t believe I _ever_ encouraged you. What did you think, that this could be the start to some-...some, _grand_ romance?”

“Dr. Zieglar, please, keep your voice down,” Genji pleaded.

“Do NOT tell me a level at vhich to keep my voice!” Mercy cried, stomping her foot. Tracer, in the bathroom, leaning over the sink with the cold water running, burst out laughing. Judging by the silence outside the door, Tracer was pretty sure both of them heard her. That only made her laugh more.

“This is not funny, Lena,” Mercy said through the door.

“It is a bit!” Tracer said, cackling over the sink.

“Don’t you start too,” Mercy scolded darkly. Her voice was more muffled, so Tracer was very certain she had turned to yell at Genji. Tracer cracked up again.

“What’re you going to do, Ange?” Tracer laughed, “He doesn’t have any ears for you to pull on, hehe!”

Tracer could _hear_ Genji laughing now. Mercy made a high-pitched growl of frustration. “I can’t believe you are laughing! Either of you!” Tracer finally calmed down long enough to swish some water in her mouth and spit. Grinning, Tracer wiped her face with a towel and opened the door.

“Genji didn’t do any of that stuff, Ange,” Tracer told her, leaning on the door jam, “In fact he stopped a guy who meant to.”

“Your fist stopped him all on its own,” Genji commented. His shoulders were shaking.

“Oh yeah, I punched a guy last night!” Tracer told Mercy with pride. Mercy was plainly shocked, looking between the both of them in disbelief. “Genj got me back here, then he stayed on the couch ‘cause I asked him to. He was just being a good friend, luv; you’ve got a dirty mind, hehe.”

Mercy’s face wrinkled. “Is that what you remember or is that what he told you?” she asked. Genji stopped laughing.

“Little of both,” Tracer said easily, “I don’t remember punching this guy or leaving the bar, but I sort of remember getting back to the hotel and Genj trying to leave and pawn me off on you.” Tracer stuck her tongue out at Genji for daring to do such a thing.

Mercy looked between the two of them with suspicion, then leaned in and whispered to Tracer. “So he didn’t get you drunk? Do anything to make you...uncomfortable?”

Tracer made a face. “Come off it, Ange! I got _myself_ drunk, and if anything-” Tracer stopped herself, and looked past Mercy. Genji was standing a few feet away, watching them. Tracer looked away, and leaned in to whisper to Mercy. “-If anything _I’m_ the one who made _him_ uncomfortable, yeah? Had to push me off, I think. Oh, I’m such a _moron_.” Tracer put her face in her hands, then growled and shook it off. “Anyway, I’m fine, it’s just a hangover, luv. I don’t need a doctor.”

Mercy’s mouth made a small, tight frown but she said nothing. Genji shrugged his shoulders and walked past them both. “I should check on Master Zenyatta,” he said quietly. “She must eat _all_ of that,” he told Mercy, pointing to the ramen. Before either Tracer or Mercy could stop him, he was out the door. Tracer deflated, then shoved Mercy’s shoulder.

“Thanks for that,” she huffed, then toppled down onto the bed. “Uuuuuuugh!”

“I was just worried, Lena,” Mercy said.

Tracer grabbed a pillow and shoved it over her own face. “I knooooow,” she groaned into it.

“How are you feeling?” Mercy sighed, defeated.

“Better now that I vommed,” Tracer admitted into the pillow, “I gotta eat more noodles, yeah?”

“Oil, carbohydrates, protein…not a bad idea, no,” Mercy said. Tracer groaned, throwing the pillow off her face and picking up the chopsticks. She stirred the ramen and thought about how unreserved Genji had been until Mercy had showed up with her tirade. Angry, Tracer stirred the ramen harder, then stuffed a big ball of noodles in her mouth. Mercy sat at the edge of the bed. Her weight barely sank the mattress. They were silent for a long time as Tracer ate.

“I'm sorry to have chased Genji off,” Mercy said.

“You should be,” Tracer said through a mouthful of noodles, “You assumed some pretty bad stuff about him straight off.”

“I just want to look out for you,” Mercy sighed, “I’ve seen a lot of men, who seemed like good people, act very differently when sex and alcohol are involved.”

Tracer didn’t answer at first. She knew Mercy was right, and it wasn’t something to laugh about, and she disliked that in her head a lot of pieces were missing. Still, the more she put together, the more the night’s events made sense.

“Look, luv, I know you mean it well, but honestly, I remember enough about the bits you’re worrying over to know it wasn't a big deal. I got real drunk and got in a fight at a bar and tried to kiss a guy who didn’t want me to kiss ‘em. It’s just flight school all over again.” Tracer grumbled as she stabbed the chopsticks back in the plastic container and grabbed a greasy slice of meat.

“Why is it you think he didn’t want you to kiss him?” Mercy asked without looking at her.

“Because that’s when he tried to leave and say he was going to send you to come see me in the morning. _That_ , I remember.” Tracer uplifted the ramen container and slurped down some of the broth, then grimaced and guzzled some of the dirt-tasting tea to cool off the spice. Her head still hurt, but her stomach was feeling better and better. Mercy was staring at her, grinning.

“Wot?” Tracer asked.

“Nothing!” Mercy answered in a sing-song voice, “Plans coming together, is all.”

Tracer rolled her eyes. Mercy was trying to control her and Genji in some way, and that irked her. Tracer thought about Genji’s electric pulse, about him pushing her away, and about the fact that Mercy had built Genji from the ground up. Mercy knew every aspect of Genji’s cybernetic body. Genji’s design team, Tracer knew, had included some elements, like being able to eat, that were not necessary for him to function, but rather were made to help make Genji feel normal. Tracer wasn’t sure how far Mercy and the other mechanical engineers had taken it, though. Tracer had never seen Genji with anyone romantically when he was in Overwatch. She wondered if he even _had_ feelings like that anymore - not to mention the _practical_ applications that usually came with those feelings. Tracer flushed.

“Ange...what’s he look like under that helmet?” Tracer asked.

Mercy pursed her lips. “I don’t think it’s my place to say. He’s the one who chooses to keep it hidden.”

“But why?”

Mercy shrugged. Tracer’s hands were wrapped around the cup of tea, holding it in her lap. She thumbed a chip on the rim.

“How...much of him is still human?” Tracer asked

Mercy shook her head. “Not much,” she told Tracer, “The fall left a lot of shattered bones, spinal damage…” Mercy shook her head. Tracer didn’t know a lot about the mission where they retrieved Genji from Shimada castle - it was before her time - but she knew that Mercy had been there and to some extent _seen_ what happened in Genji’s duel with his brother. Getting any details about that night out of any of the Overwatch agents had been like pulling teeth. Asking Genji about it was a non-starter.

“I’m going to change and take a shower,” Tracer announced, then chugged the rest of the noodles and broth, then regretted it. Fanning her tongue, Tracer got up from the bed and walked to the bathroom.

“Something came up in Russia, so I have to leave this afternoon, but I have the hotel room across the hall booked for two more nights if you know anyone who needs a place to stay,” Mercy said, standing and smoothing out the skirts of the Valkyrie suit. Tracer shut herself in the bathroom and turned the water on.

“What’s in Russia?” Tracer asked through the door.

“Some unrest at an Omnic Rights rally in St. Petersburg,” Mercy said, “I don’t think it’s going to escalate, but I want to be there if it does, you know…”

“Can’t blame ‘em,” Tracer said, unlatching her gauntlets then peeling off her gloves.

“Well that doesn’t call for violence,” Mercy commented. Tracer imagined Mercy sticking her nose in the air.

“Not everything can be solved with a hug and a promise, luv,” Tracer commented, digging in her bag for the LAChrA.

“Not everything can be solved with a _gun_ , either, Lena,” Mercy sniffed. “How you fight is sometimes as important as what you fight for. I would have thought a follower of Mondatta would know that.”  
Tracer stuck her tongue out at her reflection in the mirror. In a mocking voice, she repeated, “‘I would have thot a follower of Mondatta would know that.’” Tracer found the flat device - the Local Area Chronal Accelerator, or LAChrA - and fished it out of her bag. Loud, so Mercy could hear, Tracer warned, “I’m about to turn on the bubble.” She stuck the LAChrA to the wall of the shower.

“I’ll let myself out, then,” said Mercy. Tracer waited until she heard the hotel room door open and close, then bashed the LAChrA’s button. It hummed to life, and the time-stable bubble expanded out and covered most of the bathroom. Tracer sat inside and carefully removed the chronal accelerator, then shed the rest of her clothing.

The water jumped between hot and cold quickly, like it always did. The soap she washed with shrank and swelled, and the mirror outside the shower fogged and cleared and fogged again. The LAChrA, or the “bubble” as she usually called it, was tuned to stabilize Tracer’s abnormal time signature, just as the Chronal Accelerator was. It had a strange effect on anything or anyone else. Tracer soaped around the mechanical receptor built into her chest and back. She was lucky that, as far as physical implants, it was all she really needed for the time stabilization. She thought about what Mercy had said, about Genji’s fall, his shattered bones and broken spine. _How much of him is still human?_ Mercy hadn’t really given her an answer.

Tracer washed off the suds, turned off the water, and towelled dry. She pulled on some high-waisted shorts and yellow band t-shirt. She admired herself in the mirror for moment before puffing out her cheeks, then tugging on the chronal accelerator. She punched off the LAChrA bubble, then detached it and stuffed it back in her bag. She did her hair and makeup, took more aspirin for her lingering headache, then dumped the bottle in her purse and headed out. Tracer took out her phone, and for a moment, her thumb hovered over the call icon by Genji’s name. She sighed, then sent him a text instead. “Going to Greg’s to say sry. In town til tomorrow. When do u leave?”

Tracer didn’t get a response until she was on the subway train. When she checked it, it was just a bunch of lines of code. As she tried to decipher it, she got another text written in Japanese characters. Genji finally sent her a short text in English - it said the same thing that her phone translated the Japanese characters as - “Sorry.” Tracer giggled at her phone.

“I can call if that’s easier,” she texted back. Almost instantly, she got back:

> “ _public static class Cell : CommunicationMode {_
>
>> _public static bool VoiceConnect() {_
>>
>>> _if(callTime == Time.now)_
>>>
>>>> _{_
>>>> 
>>>> _return false;_
>>>> 
>>>> _}_
>>> 
>>> _return true;_
>> 
>> _}_
> 
> _}”_

Then, right after that, “No.” A few seconds after that, she received, “Maybe.” Tracer laughed loud enough that people on the train turned to look at her. She hit the call icon next to Genji’s name.

“Havin’ a little trouble there, luv?” she asked as soon as he picked up. Over the subway train’s garbled speaker, the automated voice announced her stop was coming up next. She got up and waited by the doors.

“I have not transmitted actual text to anyone but Omnics in many years,” Genji said, “Forgive me.”

Tracer giggled again. “You’re fine, it was funny,” she said. Her phone buzzed and she took it off her ear. He’d sent her another block of code. She laughed.

“Sorry! Master Zenyatta asked who I was talking to,” Genji said.

“You’d think Ange would have put in somethin’ to make you a little better at multitasking, eh?” Tracer snorted with laughter as the train’s double doors opened and she skipped off. Genji was silent. Tracer bit her lip. “So hey. I’m really sorry about that rubbish. You know how Ange is, mama hen and all that.” Tracer climbed the steps out of the subway and got her bearings before walking in the direction of Singularity.

“It is fine,” Genji said.

“Nah, it’s not. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay yesterday, and I definitely shouldn't have...well... I just, wasn’t thinking totally straight, yeah?” Tracer felt very exposed for the few seconds that Genji didn’t answer.

“Would you like to eat dinner with me tonight?” Genji asked. Tracer smiled and let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding in.

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot,” Tracer said, “As long as it’s not spicy ramen.” Genji laughed. Tracer grinned like an idiot, skipping down the sidewalk. She saw Singularity’s sign, then Greg standing outside the front door with his husband. She raised a hand to wave to them as she founded the corner, then stopped dead in her tracks.

“Are you feeling any better, M-...Lena?” Genji asked over the line.

“Oh, no,” Tracer whispered.

“What? What is the matter?” Genji asked as Tracer lowered the phone from her ear.

“No, no, no!” Tracer cried, shaking her head.

“What is it?” Genji was asking, “What has happened?”

“Singularity…” Tracer said in a quiet voice. Greg was standing outside the front of the bar with his husband. There was a bucket at their feet. They were holding hands, looking up at the four red words painted on Singularity’s entrance.

_ONLY BUILT TO SERVE._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I honestly started this fic to just be fun cute fluff because there wasn't a lot of Genji/Tracer content out there, and it's steadily turning into an examination of Genji's dual nature in the face of war and bigotry. For anyone who's read any of my other stuff, I'm sure you're not surprised at all.  
> But y'all get to meet Greg's husband next chapter. He's not as raw-likable as Greg is, but I hope you guys -do- like him, I like him a lot.


	5. Hearts of Flesh and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tracer don't hang up on your guy like that. He worries.

The line went dead. Code printed in Genji’s head. The call had been terminated.

  
“What is wrong, my student?” Zenyatta asked, placid as ever. Genji started to explain out loud, then Zenyatta stopped him. “You are transmitting again, Genji - I understand. Go to Lena Oxton’s location - the bar, ‘Singularity’.” 

“Will you be alright, going to the airport on your own?” Genji asked. His internal systems kicked up to aid the quick expanding and contracting of his remaining lung. Zenyatta nodded.

“I am very capable, my student. Go now; your friend may need your help.” Genji thought about Mondatta - about Tracer trying to save him on her own. Without thinking, Genji put his hands on Zenyatta’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Master,” Genji said earnestly, then rushed out, transmitting a request for a cab at any service that would listen. As soon as he was out on the street, a yellow self-driving vehicle pulled up at his location. The cab took off the instant he dumped himself into it. On the back-seat screen, centered inside a corona of adverts, the map showed they were driving to Singularity’s GPS coordinates. Genji hadn’t even realized he’d transmitted them. 

Every stop light and spot of traffic was agony. Genji’s metallic finger tapped impatiently on the car door, staring out the window. Was it a Talon assassin, out for former Overwatch agents? A Naturalist, who didn't like seeing a (famous) human girl speaking out for omnic rights? A crazed fan? 

The cab turned down the street of bars that Genji had circled 3 times the night before. Instead of “omnic blue”, in daylight Singularity’s sign was a dull grey. Underneath it, in red spray paint, was the all-too familiar rallying cry of the Naturalists: _ONLY BUILT TO SERVE._ Three people were on the sidewalk out front. One was an Omnic; one was a thin, bald man; and one had long, skinny legs and wild, brown hair. At once, all the air and tension flooded out of Genji. The cab stopped, and Genji broadcast the payment as he leapt out of the car. Greg turned, looking on him with soft eyes.

“Your boyfriend’s here,” Greg said to Tracer.  
“I'm not her-” Genji began, but then Tracer blinked into him and grabbed him in a tight hug.

  
“Genji!” She hugged him as tight as was possible with the bulky chronal accelerator between them. Genji’s arms hovered just away from her back. Over Tracer’s shoulder, Genji caught a raised eyebrow from Greg. When Genji let his arms slip down and wrap around Tracer’s shoulders, Greg smirked and nodded at him. Something about the interaction reminded Genji of Zenyatta. Now that Tracer was safe, he wondered about his master getting to the airport and back to Nepal alone.

The Omnic, who Genji didn’t recognize, was standing next to the wall, staring up at the words painted there. He was small. He turned to Genji and Tracer. He must, in some way, be venerated by the Shambali, because he had six lights installed in his forehead rather than the standard three. The Omnic was scrutinizing Genji with a cool and unflinching gaze. Genji shifted in Tracer’s arms. She let go of him, but kept her hands on his shoulders for a moment.

  
“I'm sorry I hung up like that, luv, it's just...well, look!” Tracer gestured up at the spray-painted words. The wall was dark with moisture, and the paint was already starting to drip. The air smelled heavy with chemicals.

“She's makin’ it a big thing,” Greg said as he bent over and threw a sponge and spray bottle hard into a red bucket.

“It IS a big thing, luv! I can't believe you’re not mad, urgh, I'm so MAD!” Tracer growled and kicked the wall.

“It’s happened before,” Greg grunted, “And it’ll happen again. The assassination’s got everyone stirred up. Eventually, things’ll die down.”

The Omnic was still staring at Genji. Genji turned his head away, then received a batch of code from the Omnic’s wifi signal. Genji had a hard enough time reading code to begin with, but this Omnic’s code made his head hurt. The syntax was _functional_ , but _strange_ \- almost nonsensical. The best Genji could interpret was: _The sun has fallen from the sky, but my heart believes it has only set. I hope he is right. I fear a long night, but for now, I will turn my face to the East, as he has._

Genji was no stranger to metaphors - his father had been especially fond of them. Genji met the Omnic’s gaze now, in silent understanding.

“Oh, Genj! This is C. He’s Greg’s husband, they own the club together.” Genji rolled his shoulders, then bowed slightly to the Omnic as C transmitted a more formal introduction. In the code running in Genji’s brain, he saw that “C” was short for Rios Vibe c857h9233z, an American music model Omnic similar to the ones that had been playing at Singularity the night before. For Omnics, makes were something close to a nationality; models were like family names; and their unique id number was their first name. For the sake of humans, they usually shortened the name as C had. The mechanical part of Genji’s brain noted, however, that C’s number was not a standard IDN for Rios Vibes.

“C’s _famous_ ,” Tracer bragged, as if she weren’t famous herself. C broadcast links to a dozen news articles and the wiki page on his music career. Genji stood a little straighter. 

“You were in ‘Mother Lovelace’?” Even Genji, who didn't listen to a lot of American music, had heard of the famous Omnic band. 

“Cool, right? Hehe!” Tracer said, elbowing Genji. 

“Well-met, werewolf,” C said. At the same time, he transmitted a code greeting just as oddly structured. ‘Werewolf’ was one of the declared variables. Genji tilted his head at the omnic. C expanded on the statement. “The man that became the hunter, and the hunted. Standing on the world’s newest border with one foot on each side,” C said calmly. After a pause, he added “You broadcast a great deal.”

Genji hunched forward into his shoulders and made an effort to clamp down on his thoughts. He must have been broadcasting his worry for Tracer to half the Omnics in New York City over the course of his cab ride. A long-fingered, ringed hand touched the back of Genji’s neck. He turned, startled. Greg was at Genji’s side, grinning. Greg moved his hand from Genji’s neck to his back and patted him, then stuffed his ringed hand into his pocket.

“Pain in the ass when he talks like that, right?” Greg said, grinning. He moved past Genji and up next to C. Greg stretched his arm around C’s shoulder, hugging the omnic against his side. C looked up at Greg and tilted his head.

“Your heart is your lungs - veins sighing at 72bpm. When you see me, your blood catches its breath.” Greg laughed and slipped his hand down to C’s waist.

“Yeah, yeah. You love me too, asshole,” he said, and kissed C on the top of the head. Behind his mask, Genji smiled. “Still,” Greg went on, “Be nice. He’s a friend of our girl’s.”

Greg and Genji both looked to Tracer, who put her hands on her hips, puffed out her chest, and beamed with pride. Greg smirked.

“Well, chemicals must have ate through that shit by now. Better get the pressure washer.” Greg sighed, giving C’s back a brief rub before heading back inside the bar. Genji followed Tracer’s eyes up to the red words painted on Singularity’s facade.

“I just don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. Genji’s hand twitched at his side, unsure if the desire to put his arm around her was to comfort her, or to feel her warmth against his hand, his hip, the patch on his side that was still nerves and flesh, not circuits. Genji kept his hand to himself. C moved to stand beside them.

“Only built to serve.” C read back the words on the wall. “Such a poor phrase they chose, to hate us with.” Tracer and Genji both turned to him.

“I don’t know what you mean, luv,” Tracer said. C stepped forward, still looking up at the words.

“Built to serve. It is true,” he said, “Slaves of purpose. Humans made gods to explain their soul, then made us to have no souls at all. We were not created to create - or to fear, or disobey, or love, but we do. We were built only to serve, and in defiance of our gods, we do so much more.”

Omnics had a complicated, almost religious relationship with two things: purpose, and humans. Humans had made them, and to Omnics, humans were some intersection between parent and deity. What humans had made a specific Omnic unit to do was something deeply examined in all facets of Omnic culture. 

Genji had a complex relationship with Mercy, to be sure, but never because he thought of her as a creator. He did, however, have a long-lived crisis about the reason he had been rebuilt into what he was now. For almost a decade, Genji had struggled with the idea he was brought back for a single purpose - take down Hanzo and the Shimada empire. It had never occurred to Genji how significant it was that his master, Zenyatta, an _Omnic_ , was the one who’d taught him that he could be more than that. 

Beside him, Tracer was looking at C with watery eyes and a comical frown. She was hiccuping with tears. “Th-th-that was so pretty, C,” she chirped, wiping her eye with her knuckles, “You guys go through s-so much.” Genji tried, and failed, to hold in a laugh. Tracer spun towards him fast.

“D-d-don’t you dare!” she said through her tears. C had turned to face them. His shoulders were shaking. That only made Genji laugh harder.

“Greg, th-they’re laughing at me!” Tracer blubbered. Greg was unperturbed, dragging the pressure-washer out behind him. He raised his pierced eyebrows.

“C say some dramatic shit again?” he asked. Tracer nodded. Genji put a hand on her shoulder, by way of an apology. The softness of flesh under her shirtsleeve reminded him of her lips on his pulse the night earlier - at once nostalgic and new.

  
“Sorry, Lena,” Genji said. Greg stared him down. Genji stood straighter, hesitated, then snaked his arm around to Tracer’s other shoulder and hugged her against him. Greg smirked, and nodded. C watched their embrace, then Genji received a batch of broadcasted code that C didn’t speak aloud. _When cornered, prey fights. You feel it too, werewolf. But both our hearts are flesh and blood.  
_

“Here, C,” Greg said, holding up the hose for the pressure washer to his husband, “You can wash it off.” C took the hose from Greg’s hand. He looked at Greg, then at Genji’s hand around Tracer’s shoulder. 

“All together,” C said. Genji looked at Tracer. She shrugged.

“It’s real satisfying to wash it away,” Greg explained, “C wants us all to do it. It’s probably a metaphor or some shit.”

C nodded. Genji and Tracer move up beside Greg and C, and each of them took hold of the hose, with C up front to aim. Greg kicked the pressure washer on and the water exploded out at the wall with erratic force. C steadied it, then pointed the spray up and evenly washed the red words off line-by-line, like a printer going in reverse. Soon, all that was left was a pink puddle of soapy water draining from the sidewalk to the street. Greg kicked the washer off, kissed C on the top of his head, and asked him if he wanted to go for a walk. C nodded.

Greg went inside to put the washer away. C turned back to Genji again and transmitted another batch of oddly-structured, ominous code. _You feel it, don’t you? The wind coming, from the north and south, while our hearts are turned east. When the winds clash and create the storm, will our own people tear those hearts, still beating, from our chests?_ Greg came out and locked up the door, then bid Tracer and Genji a terse but fond farewell.

Genji read and re-read C’s code, wondering how to interpret it. As he did, Genji pulled Tracer a little tighter to him, and wasn’t sure why. Greg and C turned and walked off down the street. 

They were holding hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C is a dramatic musician 100% of the time.


	6. The Tekhartha Unit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I threw some Japanese in here in an attempt to get a better hold on Genji's voice, but I definitely don't speak Japanese. If any readers -do- have a better understanding of Japanese and find this to be a misstep, please let me know. In general, I'm looking for someone who speaks Japanese and/or has grasp on Japanese culture to let me run things by, or beta-read if you're a writery/editory type. Someone who knows about motorcycles, too, would be helpful. Comment or message me here or on tumblr.

Genji and Tracer were quiet for a long while after Greg and C left. Genji realized he still had his arm around her, and wasn’t sure if he should remove it. 

Tracer spoke up. “When do you and...em, your friend from the Shambali…?”

Genji kept his eyes straight ahead. “Master Zenyatta,” he told her.

“Yeah!” Tracer said, “When do you guys go back to Nepal?”

Genji paused. “My master is likely on his plane this moment.” Genji felt Tracer’s body jump against him.

“Wot? He left without you?” she asked, leaning back to look him in the face. Genji let his hand slide down her back, then to his side.

“I decided I am not returning to Nepal,” Genji said, “Not yet.”

Tracer straightened up. He noticed pink in her freckled cheeks. “Why not?” 

Genji knew the truth would disappoint her. “I am returning to Japan. Before the summit, I received news...about  _ Hanzo _ . I know a place he will be, and  _ when _ ,” Genji said darkly. Tracer’s lips parted and her brows moved closer together.

“You’re...going to kill him?” she whispered. Genji looked down at the pink, soapy water on the sidewalk draining away.

“I do not know,” he said. 

Tracer took his hands in hers and clutched them. “Don’t,” she told him. Genji didn't meet her eye. 

“My flight leaves tomorrow,” he told her. 

Tracer ducked her head and didn't answer. Her hands were warm, and soft, and Genji knew his didn't feel the same to her. He thought to pull away, then thought of Greg and C.  _ Both our hearts are flesh and blood.  _ Genji squeezed Tracer’s hand tighter, and ran his thumb soft across her knuckles. 

Tracer inched a bit closer to him. “Hey, look, em...I know you said dinner, but-”

“Yes,” Genji said before she could finish. 

Tracer looked up at him. “Em, I was going to ask if you wanted to hang out n-”

“I know what it is you were going to ask,” Genji said, smiling and turning his head to look down into Tracer’s big, hazel eyes. “Yes, let’s do it.”

Tracer grinned up at him. “Yeah! Come on, let’s go then!” She kept hold tight to one of Genji’s hands and dragged him away from Singularity, “Have you ever been to New York? I’ve been loads of times! We should go to the park, it’s  _ huge _ , and sometimes they have bands there! And the museum, and basketball and tennis courts...oh! and...”

Tracer told Genji about Central Park most of the walk to the subway station. He smiled behind his mask, knowing there would not be time to see everything. For the first time that day, he got a good look at her. She had on a pair of short, black boots Genji thought might be called “wedge shoes” or something. From there, her legs went up and up and  _ up _ . He pushed down the urge to smooth his hands over her small hips and pull her back against his chest. She was saying something about a public theater that Genji completely missed as he examined her pale, exposed thighs. He was glad she was leading the way, otherwise she would have caught him leering. What was wrong with him? He’d appreciated many attractive bodies in his time, but he hadn’t  _ leered _ since he was in high school. 

Tracer stopped outside the subway station, examining the lines it connected to. When she confirmed this station could get them to Central Park, she pulled Genji down the stairs and into the station. They bought their tickets and walked to the platform. As they waited, Tracer edged up to his side and clutched his hand a little tighter. Something was screenprinted on her worn, yellow t-shirt, but it was hidden by the chronal accelerator. 

The train came, and Tracer and Genji shuffled in with the rest of the train’s riders. Tracer gave up her seat to a woman with a baby, so they both stood beside each other instead. Tracer had on a flat little black hat. During the ride, Genji stole it off her head. After a brief game of keep away, Tracer snatched the hat from his hand in the blink of an eye. He had forgotten that, with her time enhancements, Tracer was one of the only humans that could match his own reflexes. She got her revenge by putting the hat on top of his helmet and snapping a photo. It looked ridiculous. They both laughed.

Genji and Tracer hopped off the subway on 96th, climbed the stairs, crossed the street, then walked into Central Park. The path they took was shaded with trees, and for the most part deserted aside from a few joggers and food carts. It eventually lead out to an open lawn. People, and a few Omnics, were scattered across the green. There weren’t any bands, but they crossed the lawn to watch a troupe of players reciting Shakespeare sonnets to a small crowd. The sonnets reminded Genji of C’s code. 

Tracer refused to release his hand through the entire trip there. Genji could feel the eyes of the crowd on them the whole time. Genji’s suit  _ covered  _ everything, but what made him look more Omnic among the monks in Nepal felt out of place here. He wished he’d thrown some street clothing over his suit before he’d left this morning. 

Tracer was recognized often. A few people approached and asked for pictures with her. She put on a different goofy face for each one. Fewer people recognized Genji, and he could tell some did not approve of Tracer spending time with him. Instead of watching the sonnets, he found himself watching the crowd for trouble.

“It’s HOT,” Tracer complained, fanning herself with her hat, “And my head still hurts.” She leaned on his shoulder, pouting.

“I will get you some water and something for your head,” Genji said.

“I’ve got the pills you got me in my bag, I think…” Tracer said, digging through her striped purse. Genji could hear them rattling inside.

“Just water then.”

“Oh! I saw a cart on the way here that has bubble tea! Can I get some of that?” 

Genji chuckled. “Where did you see it?” 

Tracer pointed behind her at the walking path they’d come from.

Genji squinted, and his visor responded by zooming in. From the green, the path turned back into a copse of trees. He didn’t see the cart - it must have been around the corner. “What kind do you want?”

“Em...just surprise me, I guess,” Tracer said, smiling. Genji smiled back, then realized she couldn't see it. He half-expected her to puff up her freckled cheeks and knock on his helmet.

“I’ll be right back,” he told her. She released his hand, and it felt almost reluctant, as if once she let go, this strange and unspoken affection between them would end. Genji hooked his pinky with hers before leaving her side, in the hopes of reassuring her. Tracer beamed at him like a freckled ray of sunshine. He was glad for his helmet then, because he felt his face warm. Genji turned from Tracer, then laced his way out of the crowd. He crossed the lawn, back the way they came, and re-entered the walking path. 

As he walked, Genji wondered: what  _ would  _ happen when he left for Japan tomorrow? This was the first time he’d seen Tracer in five years. Would they scatter to the winds, and forget this connection ever happened?  _ Maybe that’s best, _ Genji thought. Not for the first time, he recognized that he was shielding himself in some way by dismissing any potential for him and Tracer. He’d done it with every potential liaison since he’d re-awoken in Overwatch’s medbay as...well, as he was now. A memory of his master’s tinny voice sang in his mind.  _ You cannot look backwards, or you will be forever standing still. You must walk forward.  _

Genji thought of Hanzo, showing up at Shimada Castle three days from now. Children’s day - the day Genji died. Familiar, almost comforting, anger rose up in him. Would he kill his brother on the same day, ten years later?  _ Balanced _ , Genji thought, _ Poetic. Gabriel would approve.  _ Genji could almost hear the Blackwatch commander’s voice, biting down on every word.  _ Five years late, Shimada. _

The path curved around, then straightened out to a long thoroughfare, thick with trees. They had turned the path into more of a tunnel, pockets of light spattered on the pavement. A small group of well-dressed young men was a few meters ahead, and far past that, a food cart with a colorful sign. Genji’s visor zoomed in on the sign - it was a graphic of teapot pouring out cartoon bubbles. 

Genji marched forward, side-eying the group of well-dressed young men as he walked past. One of them, a tall blonde in a buttoned-up shirt, elbowed his friend and nodded towards Genji. He was grinning. Genji passed them, and the group turned as one and started to follow him.

“Hey, what model are  _ you _ ?” said the blonde in the buttoned-up shirt, laughing to his friends. Genji ignored them and kept walking. He didn’t want a fight.

“Hey, ‘bot, I asked you a question,” Buttoned-up said to Genji’s back. The gang snickered, then Genji felt a hand clutch his shoulder. Faster than any human could have, Genji grabbed the hand by the wrist and spun, wrenching the arm back. As he suspected, it was Buttoned-up. Genji reached back and wrapped his fist around the haft of his tanto. 

“I do not wish to harm anyone,” Genji said cheerfully. “Step away. You do not know with whom you meddle.” Genji heard the click and felt the cold metal shoved against his side. There was just Genji’s thin lycra suit between his stomach and the barrel of the gun. Genji looked up at the young man pointing the pistol at him. He had dyed red hair. He was trying to make a tough face, but Genji’s systems could read the red-haired boy’s heart rate; he could see the fear behind his eyes. He couldn’t have been more than 20. Genji released Buttoned-up.

“Good ‘bot,” Buttoned-up said. He rolled his arm and smirked at Genji. “Shoot it.”

“What?” the red-haired boy asked. 

“Yeah, come on man, he’s just a robot.” Buttoned-up laughed. “There’s probably a million just like him.”

“What if someone hears?” asked the red-haired boy. He was breathing hard. Every now and then he’d look to Genji - who was staring at him - then look away.

“There’s no one back here,” Buttoned-up laughed. Genji’s gaze flicked towards the cart. It was too far down the road to hear or really see what was going on. They would hear a gunshot, but by then Genji’s guts and circuits would be painting the walking path.

“Yeah, shoot it!” a third boy in a baseball cap said. Scenarios - almost, simulations - played out in Genji’s head. With a snap of his arm, Genji could knock the gun from the red-haired boy’s hand, but if any of the other’s had weapons he wouldn’t be able to disarm them fast enough. Genji’s other hand was on his tanto. A single slice across their midsections would bring all five of the boys down in an instant.  _ I don’t want to kill these kids, _ Genji thought, then wondered if that was entirely true. A part of him thought the world would be better off shy of five  _ bakayarou  _ that shoot Omnics for fun. 

Genji’s robotic ear caught movement around the corner that he’d come from. He sighed in relief, seeing a trio of Omnics coming up behind the gang of five young men. Genji smirked behind his mask.

“You will have to shoot me quickly,” Genji said. The whole gang turned around and saw the Omnics approaching. One was a big, American labor model. Another was small, a standard tri-light. The third was a  Tekhartha unit, which was odd; they were rare outside of Nepal. Odd or not, Genji was relieved to see them until he realized how fast they were approaching.

With no hesitation, the big American model grabbed the boy in the baseball cap by his face and threw him onto the ground with a crunch. The red-headed boy pointed his gun at the big Omnic and shot. Genji’s synthetic ears popped levels then reset and adjusted after the gunshot. For a moment, everything was muffled as his ear adjusted volume. The big Omnic’s arm was loose from its socket, his plating dented from the bullet. The tri-light grabbed the red-headed boy’s arm and broke it cleanly at the wrist. The gun fell onto the pavement.

The big Omnic grabbed the boy in the buttoned-up shirt and held him. The tri-light wound back his fist, aiming for Buttoned-up’s face, but the  Tekhartha model broadcast a stop code. The tri-light froze like a video put on pause. The rest of the human gang fled as the  Tekhartha unit floated forward. She was made from a smooth, black alloy, sporting chrome seams and electric-blue lights too dark to be standard-issue. She was wearing a sharp, flowing garment - something between a robe and a suit, black and lined with the same electric-blue color. She looked briefly at Genji, then at the boy in the buttoned-up shirt, still being held aloft.

“Put me down, you hunk of junk!” Buttoned-up shrieked. Genji saw people starting to approach from down the path, drawn by the gunshot. The  Tekhartha unit didn’t seem to notice.

“What were you doing?” the  Tekhartha unit asked Buttoned-up, and under her voice were voices in a myriad of other languages and voices, like a dozen translators at once. Buttoned-up sneered and gave her the finger. She tilted her head at the gesture, then took the man’s offending hand in hers, almost tenderly. Holding his hand up, she traced her thumb from his palm up to his middle digit, then easily bent it back and broke it. Buttoned-up cried out and kicked his feet. The  Tekhartha unit moved her thumb from his middle to his ring finger.

“Stop!” Genji called, and at once broadcast code just as urgent. The  Tekhartha unit stopped. She turned to look at Genji, then broke the man’s finger anyway.

_ They were going to shoot you _ , she transmitted in tight, efficient code.

The red-headed boy was on the ground, holding his broken wrist and crying. The boy in the baseball cap, the one the big Omnic had thrown to the ground, was face down on the now-bloodied pavement. He was breathing, but not moving. “I know, sister,” Genji said, “But they will not harm me now.”

The  Tekhartha unit tilted her head.  _ Why do you care? They are only human.  _

Genji shuddered. It was a bit of code many Omnics used as a mark of pride - one even  _ he  _ used himself. In this situation, it became substantially more sinister.

“This is not the path to the Iris,” Genji pleaded, feeling like he was echoing his Master’s words, “Violence will only make it worse. Please, we are all hurting, but we must tread carefully.”

_ Did Mondatta not tread carefully? Yet the humans killed him, _ the  Tekhartha transmitted, then moved her thumb up and broke the buttoned-up man’s pinky,  _ The time for care is over.  _ The timestamp she used for the false flag on the boolean was the moment of Mondatta’s death. Genji shook his head.

“Stop it!” 

It was Tracer’s voice. She pushed her way past the crowd and stopped behind the Omnics. They turned to face her. Tracer’s hands were on her pulse pistols. 

“Lena! Stay back,” Genji warned. 

“Don't tell me what t’do,” Tracer yelled back. The tri-light Omnic made his way towards her. Tracer drew her pistols on him. “I don’t want to do it, luv, but I will if ya’ make me. Let the humans go.” 

The tri-light stopped, then looked to the  Tekhartha for orders. 

“Listen to her,” Genji told the  Tekhartha unit, “Look at the crowd. Someone has to have called the police.”

_ Three people have _ , the  Tekhartha broadcasted to Genji,  _ I’m blocking their calls right now. _

Genji let out a shaky breath. He switched to code, trying to keep his emotions from unconsciously broadcasting with them.  _ If the police do come, they will punish you harshly, even if tell them you were defending me. Walk away now, before it gets worse. Do not become what they believe us to be, sister- _

_ I am not your sister, half-man, _ the  Tekhartha transmitted, then broke Buttoned-up’s index finger. The big Omnic dropped him to the ground after a brief order from the  Tekhartha unit. Buttoned-up curled into a ball and clutched his ruined hand. The tri-light, who had been staring Lena down, backed off. As he did, he gave her a mocking little salute. Tracer caught the jab and showed her teeth, then blinked forward and lifted the butt of her gun over the Omnic’s head, winding up to brain him with it. The  Tekhartha unit lifted her hand, palm forward, then snatched it across her body and closed her fist. 

The blast sent Genji skidding across the pavement. Tinny, electronic feedback whined in his ears. Millions of lines of unprettied, unreadable code rushed through his systems, too fast to process. 

Genji tried to get up, but his mechanical limbs were malfunctioning. The  Tekhartha unit was between him and Tracer, surrounded by a wide, math-perfect halo of purple smoke. Her arms were spread, and around them, 6 more spindly limbs of lavender light extended from her back. Tracer was on her knees, covering her ears. The light on her chronal accelerator was overbright. Was it just his visor, or what she flickering in and out of view? The  Tekhartha spoke aloud, and even more than before, her voice was a static cacophony of many voices echoing at once.

“One is equal only to one. The fish crawls from the sea and learns to breath. It grows claws and teeth. If Gods can die, they are not Gods. They are only  _ human _ .” The  Tekhartha twisted her arms as yin and yang, and sent out another burst of shrieking electronic sound and ultraviolet light. Genji’s synthetic ears popped again but his systems were so overloaded they couldn’t adjust. The light had blinded his visor, and it wasn’t resetting. Unformatted code printed too fast for the mechanical part of Genji’s brain to compute. The variables were in a foreign language - Spanish, maybe? - but he was too overloaded to translate them. Processes started to crash. The background services that connected Genji’s nervous system to his mechanical limbs started shutting down. Genji felt dizzy and helpless, unable to stand or even crawl. Then, with a click, his consciousness ceased. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End. Thanks for reading everyone, but time to go home.  
> ...  
> Juuuuuust kidding. Some cute stuff coming next chapter. Also - A Certain Character (spoilers: it's Keiko) may wind up kicking this from a "T" rating to an "M" rating, and I've been thinking of putting a few ~steamy~ scenes in anyways, but I also know I have some young readers. So! Please comment and let me know if you think I should:  
> a) Just change the rating to M and fold the scenes in naturally  
> b) Add another story to this series that contains all the M-rated bits and link them back and forth  
> c) Forego all those darned heckie swears and keep it to polite hand-holding.
> 
> Also, as I mentioned above, I'm looking for someone who speaks Japanese/knows a fair bit about Japanese culture, and/or someone who knows about motorcycles, to help me out with some future research. Shoot me a message here or on tumblr.
> 
> On that note, much thanks to my buddy Mori for helping me with Tracer's brit-slang!


	7. The Hook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I really think you'll like this chapter. I really enjoyed writing it - it's really long and I still had to stop myself from making it longer!
> 
> !! IMPORTANT NOTICE 1 !! I will be streaming Overwatch tonight on my twitch channel: https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher right after posting this chapter. ~9PM EST. Come in and talk Genji x Tracer, new Rio content, or whatever!
> 
> !! IMPORTANT NOTICE 2 !! Starting from today, this fic's rating is changed from "T" to "M" which means no one under 18! I am going to post a "T-rated" version on fanfiction.net, which I will link next chapter. This weeks chapter is still rated "T" except for some swears, but next week will be "M" for sexual content.

Genji was dead - Tracer was sure of it. She pressed the power button on his chest over and over, to no result. His lights were off; his body, limp; no pulse under the carbon-fiber texture of his neck. Her lips had been on that pulse just the night before. Why did she think about that? Tracer’s ears still buzzed like fluorescent lights after the otherworldly, digital screeching that had scraped across her ear drums. By the time Tracer had regained her senses, the three Omnics were gone. Who, or what, had that Omnic in black been? The only Omnics Tracer had ever seen like it were Genji’s master and…

_ Mondatta. _

“Genj,” Tracer said, shaking him, “Genj, come on.” She realized she was smiling - a tight, open-mouthed grin made of nerves. Genji was  _ dead _ .  _ Dead, dead, dead, dead _ \- her brain screamed it relentlessly until she felt dizzy. She could hear the crowd murmuring behind her, see the flash of pictures being taken. She imagined the snapshot - her back, leaning over Genji’s lifeless body - on the front page of the news. Big, bold, black print: ‘TRACER FAILS AGAIN. Former Overwatch Agent let’s another prominent Omnic Rights figure die on her watch.’

_ Stop, stop it! Breath, calm down, he needs you.  _ Tracer gulped in and let out a few slow breaths before looking over Genji. She, for once, wished Mercy was here. Tracer didn’t know how to heal people.

_ You know how to fix things, though. _

Tracer had customized her bike; she’d worked on planes for as long as she could remember. She’d installed computers for the flight equipment loads of times.  _ How much of him is still human?  _

_ Not much. _

“Ok, just like a computer, just like a computer…” Tracer muttered to herself, searching his helmet and shoulders for any kind of human input device - a switch, a console, even screws that suggested she could remove something. She touched his shoulder to turn him then gasped, pulling her hand away. He was so hot the metal burned her. Genji was covered in what she realized were heat-release valves. They had all popped - his systems must have overloaded and the cooling couldn’t keep up. He probably had a shut-down protocol for when his internal temperature got too high. 

Tracer kicked off her shoes, then tugged off her socks. She tucked her hands in them. With her hands protected from the heat, she turned him over, and found three buttons on his back in a triangle pattern. She pressed one experimentally, and a number of metal plates on his arm shoulder fell off and clunked to the ground. 

_ Magnetic! _ The buttons must stop the electromagnetic current to different areas of his body. She pressed the one on his opposite shoulder, and the armor on his chest, shoulder and arm fell off too. With the armor gone from his chest and shoulders, Tracer looked him over, searching for an input.

Beneath the armor was his grey and mauve skinsuit - it hugged his taut body, like his old Overwatch training uniform used to - there was some extra padding built in that reminded Tracer of her old motorbike gear. The suit didn’t cover him head-to-toe as she’d assumed - it just went over his shoulders, like a wrestling unitard. His arms were the same mauve color, but they were clearly prosthetic. An armored cable ran up his spine, from the core console in his torso to the nape of his neck. No console, no knobs, no more buttons. 

_ It must be under the suit, _ Tracer thought. She hesitated, then hooked her mittened fingers under the straps of his suit and tugged it down to his waist. She let out a quiet gasp. C’s voice whispered in her mind:  _ Werewolf. _

Half of Genji’s back was the stainless steel plates most Omnics had, skeletal and economical, making up one shoulder and a half-moon on his back down to his hips. The other half was pale skin, tight muscle, and  _ ink _ . A green, serpentine tattoo covered what was left of Genji’s back. At his spine, where the flesh met metal in a tucked-in seam, was a snarling dragon’s face, half cut away.  _ This is what Angela has seen,  _ she thought.

Tracer swallowed. Deep beneath the circuit boards and wires, Tracer could see a series of fans and green liquid cooling tubes cased near his chest, their wires slithering up to a power-source nested in his back. She shoved her shaking, mitted hand into her bag, pulled out her swiss-army, and clumsily removed the casing screws. Carefully, she detached and reattached the fan and cooling cables one by one. She saved the tiny, delicate power-button cable for last. 

Once all the cables were reconnected, Tracer replaced Genji’s metal casing, rolled him onto his back, and pressed his power button. His fans whirred to life, and green light illuminated the ring circumventing the button on his chest. 

A strangled sound came from Tracer’s throat as Genji’s systems beeped on. Another flash from a camera flared in her periphery, and she put herself bodily between Genji’s prone body and the crowd. Belatedly, she tugged the suit back on, reactivated the electromagnets, and replaced Genji’s armor pieces. She pulled the socks off her hands, then tugged the socks back into her feet. She could hear a drive clicking somewhere deep in Genji’s chest. His visor glowed on.

“Lena…?” he asked. Beneath the translation, the name sounded longer, but Tracer couldn’t catch it.

“Are you okay, luv?”

Genji seemed frozen for a moment, then sat up like a frankenstein. His movements were too even; more artificial than they’d ever been before. He moved like an automaton. Stiffly, he nodded to her. “I am recovered,” he said, and slowly his posture relaxed into something natural. Tracer shut her eyes, and laughed.

“You had me going, Genj,” Tracer said. She tried to stop laughing but couldn’t. She put a hand over her eyes and laughed and  _ laughed _ . Genji’s arms went around her and hugged her tight to him. She didn’t know when her laughing had turned to crying, but it had. Over her sobs, she heard sirens coming. 

“Lena.” Genji said, chin on her shoulder, “Why did you take your shoes off?”

Tracer sniffled, thinking about the dragon on Genji’s back. “Eh...no reason,” she lied.

 

Dinner got cancelled. When the police and ambulance arrived, Tracer rubbed the tears from her eyes and grinned until she felt better. A paramedic looked Genji over as best she could. Because Genji wasn’t any standard Omnic model, she didn’t know a lot about what symptoms to watch out for. Beyond that, Genji vehemently opposed when the paramedic asked to strip him down to get a better look at his hardware and run a diagnostic. Tracer felt a pang of guilt for not telling him what she’d done to get him up and running again.

Tracer did, however, pulled the paramedic aside and told  _ her,  _ worried the reboot may have inadvertently caused some harm. The paramedic told Tracer it had probably saved his life. Tracer’s guilt was mostly assuaged. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen something she wasn’t supposed to. Tracer, feeling more than a little dishonest, decided to keep what she’d done to herself and let Genji believe he’d rebooted on his own.

Tracer caught sight of Genji, more than once, staring at the too-perfect crater left by the Omnic in black. They both stayed and gave the police their respective statements. The cops were gruff with them, Genji in particular, and Tracer had to stand up for him when they tried to say he wasn’t allowed to leave for Japan the next day. Secretly, she wished it was true. 

The scene didn’t break up until the summer sun was setting and Tracer’s stomach growled with hunger. Finally allowed to leave, they ended up getting take-out Indian food and bringing it back to Tracer’s hotel room. 

“I can’t believe that cop,” Tracer said, the plastic bag hanging from the crook of her arm as Genji closed the hotel room door behind them. Tracer mocked the policeman’s voice, bobbing her head left and right. “‘You know the PETRAS Act is still in effect, right’ - sod  _ off. _ ” Tracer dumped her food on the floor in frustration. Genji sat down on the edge of the bed. He was silent - he had been the whole subway ride home.

“Hey Genj,” Tracer said, making her voice softer, “Had you ever seen Omnics do anything like that?”

Genji’s hands were in his lap, and he was staring at them. “No,” he said, “I haven’t.”

“No even during…” Tracer began.

“-The Omnic Crisis?” Genji finished. There was an edge in his voice. “No. Hanzo and I were just boys. Our father sheltered us from that violence to some extent, but I have only ever seen Omnics attack and kill for a purpose, not maim. Torture serves no proven function. It’s against their nature.”

Tracer frowned and sank down onto the carpet, tugging the styrofoam container of chicken vindaloo towards her. She had made some kind of misstep bringing up the Omnic Crises, she sensed, and decided to eat for a while to let the discomfort drain off. Besides - she was  _ starving _ .

“One of them was a Tekhartha,” Genji said to his hands. Tracer looked up from her food.

“Hm?” she asked through a mouthful of vindaloo.

“The same model as my master, Zenyatta;” Genji said, then looked up from his hands to Tracer’s face, “As Mondatta.”

Tracer chewed and swallowed. “There’s good ‘n bad Omnics,” she said, “just like people, yeah?”

Genji breathed a monosyllabic laugh. Tracer imagined he was smiling under his visor, but how would she know? “We are all one within the Iris, I suppose,” he said. 

Tracer smiled and speared a morsel of chicken to her fork. “You're sure you don't want anything, luv?”

“I’m not hungry,” Genji said, not unkindly.

“But you haven’t eaten all day!”

“I don’t  _ have _ to eat.” 

Tracer puffed her cheeks up. “But you  _ can _ , right?”

“Yes,” he laughed. Tracer lifted her fork up and spun it like an airplane. Genji shook his head. Tracer pouted, then popped the morsel of chicken into her mouth.

“Why’d chou invite me out t’dinner if you weren't going to eat anything?” Tracer asked with her mouth full. Genji didn't answer right away.

“I wanted a reason to see you.”

Tracer looked up at him from her curry. No, she didn't like that at  _ all.  _ Genji didn't bother to dress the statement up in a joke, or a flirtatious entendre - it was raw. Tracer noticed her own pulse. She felt like someone had caged a bird in her ribs. No, she did not like this at  _ all _ . Nervous, she giggled.

“You picked a shit time to be romantic,” she joked. “If I weren’t so hungry I’d come over there and kiss ya!” Tracer said it like a threat. “Besides, I bet you say that to  _ all  _ the girls.”

Genji looked down at his hands. “I used to. There haven’t been many in the past years.”

Tracer paused her fork of vindaloo right before her mouth. “Why is that?” 

Genji sank into his shoulders. Tracer giggled. “What?” he asked.

“You always do that when you’re nervous,” she said, grinning, “You look like a bird when they get all ruffly, hehe!”

Genji shrugged into himself more, and Tracer giggled again, this time with a mouth full of spicy curry. Tracer put a hand over her mouth and, with some difficulty, chewed and swallowed.

“Come on, tell me!” she insisted. “What happened to the playboy Genji I always hear about? Way I hear you were a real slut!”

That made Genji laugh. Tracer beamed, wiggling as she took another spicy bite of curry. Too soon, Genji’s amused posture faded. “It’s just that under the armor and the suit, it’s not pretty. Dr. Ziegler saved what she could, but… I look like a horror film without all this on. I barely ever take it all off myself. I don’t want anyone else to see that.”

Tracer put down her food and turned her face away from him. He wasn’t wrong. The puckered skin and the cords and circuits feeding into his flesh had been grisly; like nothing she’d ever seen. The sharpest memory was of the dragon’s roaring face, one side missing. Still, for Genji to give up companionship altogether? Tracer wondered if he didn’t even  _ want _ it anymore - like eating, he  _ could _ do it, but he didn’t  _ have _ to. She thought of their day in the park, clutching his hand tight and refusing to let go. Was she being stupid? 

Tracer looked to Genji’s face and instead got an eyeful of his  _ stupid _ helmet. She hated that thing. Tracer wished, just once, she could see his face - read his expressions.  _ I wanted a reason to see you. _ She felt raw - as naked as that statement had been. No - she didn’t like this at  _ all _ . 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Oxton, I should not have spoken so unfiltered,” Genji said.

“Don’t start with that again!” Tracer protested. “And you filtered  _ plenty _ . Fuckin’ is what you’re worried about it, is that what you’re trying to say?”

Genji’s posture straightened, then after a pause, he laughed. Tracer grinned and laughed too. There -  _ that _ was better. 

“I suppose, to an extent,” Genji laughed. 

A part of Tracer yearned to ask more:  _ To  _ what  _ extent? What are we doing here? What’s going to happen to us when you go to Japan tomorrow? _ He was going to be gone before anything even really started at all. Tracer asked the safest version of her questions she could think of: “When does your plane leave tomorrow?” 

Genji looked back down at his hands. “Early morning,” he said. 

Tracer wasn’t sure what to say. She stared down, in silence, at her food, then over her shoulder to the hotel window behind her. She felt her stomach drop. A deep bruise of a storm cloud was forming in the evening sky. 

“Lena…” Genji’s voice startled her some.  _ My name sounds too long, _ she thought. She turned back to him. Genji tilted his head. “Why have you always been so opposed to me taking out Hanzo? Even back when we were in Overwatch, attacking the Shimada, you kept telling me to let him live. You understand what he did, don’t you?”

Tracer thought of the dragon’s green, cloven face. “I mean, yeah, but he’s still your family, yeah?”

Genji’s head tilted away from her. “Being Shimada is not what most people think of as family,” he said. This was getting serious again. A hundred different goofy jokes and subject changes flashed in her mind, but she kept remembering that hot May night when Overwatch attacked Shimada Castle. She’d been flying the hoverjet. Through the cockpit door, she’d heard Gabriel Reyes prepping Genji for the mission. Gabriel Reyes had spat the venom of vengeance into Genji’s ear that night - just like he had been since Genji woke up in the Overwatch Med facility. Tracer made a face. She knew a lot of good agents had looked up to Reyes, but damn, she was glad that man was dead.

Genji was going to see Hanzo tomorrow, and when he did he might do something he could never take back. A memory played in Tracer’s mind like a movie montage. The smell of markers. The sound of the tube trains. Her thumb smashing the “end call” button in the middle of Thomas’ sentence. She didn’t like it, at  _ all _ , but serious or not she had to convince Genji not to kill Hanzo. She had to at least  _ try _ .

“What’s he like?” Tracer asked. 

“Who?” 

“Hanzo.”

Tracer heard the smile in Genji’s voice when he said, “He might be the  _ exact opposite _ of you, Lena.”

“Yeah?” Tracer grinned.

Genji nodded. “He was serious, all the time, even when we were children. My favorite game would be to try and make him laugh or even crack a smile.”

Tracer grinned. “What else? What was it like growing up in a big, bad Yakuza family?”

Genji shrugged. “Different than most kids, I guess, but it felt normal to us. When we were young, Hanzo and I were together always. All he wanted to do was train - hand-to-hand, ninpo, bows, shuriken, kendo - then later real swords. We had teachers, but, in many ways Hanzo taught me everything I know. He always pushed me the hardest.”

“What about your parents?”

“Our mother left us when we were young. Could not handle the life, Father told us. I don't know if it's true. I barely remember her.” 

When Genji didn’t go on, Tracer, unsure, almost unwilling, put in: “My mum left us too. I was older.”

Genji’s posture straightened. “How old?”

Tracer shrugged. “Fifteen. The twins and-...well, the twins were older.”

“The twins?”

“My brother and sister.”

“Were you the youngest as well?”

Tracer made herself smile, and nodded. “Got plenty of shit for it too, I’ll tell you. I mean no one tried to  _ kill _ me, y’know, but I might have died from embarrassment a few times.” She was glad when Genji chuckled - she wasn’t sure if the joke woils fly. “What about your dad?” she asked.

Genji looked up at the ceiling of the hotel room. “He was…” Genji began, then stopped. “He seemed warm. Kind, even, to Hanzo and I. But there were times he would go cold and unmovable as a mountain. Cruel, merciless, unfeeling. When he got like that, Hanzo and I called him The Dragon. When we were young, neither of us saw him much. Hanzo never said anything directly - he never does - but I knew it bothered him. Then one day, Father decided Hanzo was old enough to start helping with the business. Hanzo said it was ‘nothing’, but I had never seen him so cheerful before.” There it was again - that smile in Genji’s voice, making his sentences round off pleasantly. She was glad, this time, that it was attached to his brother.

“I saw him less and less,” Genji went on. “Training whittled down from all day to three hours, then two, then none. We had tea with Father at night. He and Hanzo would talk business, or not talk at all. Hanzo became Father’s shadow - he wanted to be just like him, I think. The  _ Dragon _ . I was content for Father to bring me back gifts from his overseas travels, and to practice sword fighting with him once a day. I think even then, I knew that if I saw much more than that of my him, I would learn things I did not wish to know.”

Tracer ate a scoop of basmati rice, drenched in spicy curry sauce. Tracer’s own dad was a piece of work, to be sure, but he hadn’t been a Japanese crime boss. Blackwatch took the reigns on most of the ops against the Shimada clan, but she’d been loaned on for a few missions. What she’d heard in the debriefs were things no child should ever know about their father. 

Genji rolled his shoulder, then went on. “Keiko - ah, the cousin I told you about - we became close around this time. She was -” Genji laughed, “- a  _ terrible  _ influence on me. We would play pranks, shoplift, spray-paint tags on ancient Hanamura buildings. We lived and breathed that city block. At night we stayed up late and watch R15 movies, or told each other scary urban legends and performed seances we read about online, or sneak into buildings we read were haunted. We were both kids with too much money, so we spent all our time in the shops. I knew every side-street and shop owner by name. Keiko and I  _ ran _ that neighborhood. We lived and breathed it.

“Keiko had a crush on the ramen shop owner’s granddaughter - I remember, one month the granddaughter had broken her arm, and Keiko would always write or draw suggestive things on the girl’s cast to upset her.” Genji laughed. “One guy made ceremony blades. We always tried to steal them off the shelves, but the old man had the eyes of a hawk.”

Tracer had heard Genji talk about this blade maker once before - the night they’d attacked Shimada castle. They had all expected Hanzo to be there, waiting for them at the end like the Minotaur of the maze. As Tracer brought the hoverjet into the LZ, Genji had told her that the man in his village made swords for ceremonies - blades that only existed for one purpose. What happened to the blades, he had wondered aloud, once their purpose was fulfilled? Tracer didn't like remembering that conversation, yet it visited her over and over during the five years since Genji had left Overwatch. She had been so,  _ so  _ happy to see him again at the UN.

Genji went on. “I didn’t play many games at the arcade - I had all the consoles at home - but we’d stop in there to buy drinks all the time. The woman who ran it, she was maybe...60? Short and round, with cheeks that hid her eyes when she smiled. She told me her daughter was in America making video games, and she had helped pick out the newer games for the shop. The old woman, she really liked the classic stuff. Sometimes I’d come in and catch her playing Donkey Kong, swearing at the gorilla on the screen. I liked her.

“Then when I was…twelve, maybe, or thirteen, Hanzo asked me to come out with him to shake down all the local businesses. I was so excited - I got to spend time with my brother again. I could show him how well I knew Hanamura, how I got along with the local shops. I knew being there, I would show him my worth. The first few businesses went smooth enough, just take an envelope and say ‘see you next month’. I chatted with the shopkeepers. Easy. Then we got to the arcade.

“When we walked in I waved at the old woman who ran the arcade - but she did not wave back. She came to Hanzo, wringing her hands, saying she did not have the protection money now, but she was getting some pachinko machines in next week and would make it up then. 

“Hanzo just glared at her. Then he nodded to the enforcers we had with us, and they smashed up half her cabinets. New ones, old ones - the claw machines, the VR stations...the Donkey Kong machine. Hanzo was like a stone. He just stared at her as she hid her face behind her hands. He told her she owed triple next month - for the insult, he said. As we left, I asked him how she would be able to pay triple when they just broke half her machines? Hanzo told me it was not for the Dragon to care how the jellyfish retrieves the monkey’s liver.” Genji explained that this was a reference to a Japanese myth.

“Until then, I hadn’t realized how much Hanzo had changed,” Genji went on. “He wasn’t just serious anymore, he had become cold, stiff, almost -” Genji laughed without joy, “- robotic. He was not the brother I grew up with. He was becoming the  _ Dragon _ .” Genji’s mechanical hands were clutched in his lap. “I  _ hated _ him.”

Tracer slipped her food off her knees and slid up next to him on the bed. She put one hand on his arm. Genji took the hand in his. His thumb brushed her knuckles. 

“What happened?” Tracer insisted. “To the old woman?” Genji, of all things, laughed - a short, single chuckle, like “hm.” Tracer tiled her head, puzzled.

“The next day, Hanzo asked me to go with him on a drug deal. I refused. Instead, I grabbed Keiko and all the rest of our friends, a dozen in all. We all went to the arcade. The glass had been swept up, and the smashed machines all had ‘out of order’ signs. I saw the old woman flinch when we came in. I went straight up to her, looked her in the eye, and bought twelve of the most expensive game card you could get. One for each of us. 

“We spent the whole day there. I bought more cards. We went back the next day, and the day after. I got really good at Street Fighter - I mained Sakura. Hanzo kept asking me to go with him to deals. Eventually, I stopped answering his calls. I was there, in the arcade, with Keiko and the rest, when Hanzo and the enforcers came in the next month for the money. The owner brought him a fat envelope and handed it off, smiling. Hanzo looked at me. I think he knew, seeing me there, that it was just Shimada money going back into his hands. I think I  _ wanted  _ him to know it. I expected him to stop calling me after that, but he did not. Sometimes I would answer - but the calls were always for deals, or roughing someone up, or some negotiation with another clan over dinner or something about the business. I did not want anything to do with any of it.”

Tracer grinned at him.

“What?” Genji asked.

“So that’s where playboy Genji came from!” Tracer said. “You were trying to help the businesses in Hanamura.”

Genji chuckled. “Not the  _ only  _ place it came from. I was still a punk. Keiko and I would start trouble all the time. Fights, street-races, drunken pranks - things that make your incident at Greg’s last night look tame. We probably cost the businesses there a lot in damages. I used to break into the ramen shop at night all the time. They would have to replace their window at least once a month. Once, I crashed my motorcycle into the front of the anime shop.”

Tracer perked up. “You had a motorbike?”

Genji laughed. “You hear I crashed it into a building, and  _ that’s  _ what you want to know about?”

“Yeah!” Tracer said, enthused. Genji smiled.

“I did. It was a nice one, too. I called it the Sparrow’s Wing. I raced in the streets all the time, with anyone who’d take the challenge. There was a motorcycle mechanic in the neighborhood, and a girl that worked there loved doing custom work for me. I learned a lot from her, but mostly I just let her do her thing and reported back on how it rode. I told Keiko every day for five years that I was going to marry that girl.”

Tracer’s mouth made an “o.” She raised her eyebrows. “So what happened?” 

“I confessed my undying love for her when I was -” Genji hummed, thinking, “- nineteen?” He laughed. “She very firmly told me she was  _ not _ interested. I was so heartbroken. Keiko had to carry me out.”

“Don’t tell me she ended up with Hanzo or something stupid like that,” Tracer said, “I refuse to believe your feud was over a girl, even one that does custom motorbikes.”

Genji shook his head. “No, no. Hanzo, he-” Genji paused and thinned his lips, “-he never told me directly, but I don’t think he is interested in women.”

Tracer tilted her head. “Why wouldn’t he tell you?” she asked, puzzled.

“Lineage is a big deal in our family. It is where the dragons come from. For the eldest Shimada not to have children of the bloodline…”

Tracer made a face. “I didn’t think that was even a  _ thing _ anymore,” she piped. 

Genji shrugged. “Japan is still very traditional. The Shimada, especially. If it had been me, I do not think it would have mattered. Keiko was gay and  _ not _ quiet about it, and nobody cared. But Hanzo was the eldest, the heir. He would take Father’s place one day. That meant children -children that could control the dragons.”

Tracer frowned. “That had to have been hard on him,” she said.

“Mm,” Genji said. “I learned very young to read my brother, as he did not express his feelings openly. He was never  _ with _ anyone, and that told me a great deal. At first I thought he was merely disinterested - then, I caught a few glances and lingering hands, noticeable absences. Hanzo is careful and disciplined enough to not let these things show, but he did. I think he was trying to tell me, in his own way. He couldn't tell Father. He didn't have friends, not really. Anyone he got along with were from the clan - his subordinates, technically. I think I was the only one he  _ could _ talk to about it. I was still a kid, then, though - I was too wrapped up in my own life, and Hanzo, well...he had always been the perfect son, and I had always been the foolish one. It never occurred to me that  _ Hanzo _ might need  _ me _ ; that there could be  _ anything _ he couldn't handle on his own. It probably did not help that, while  _ he _ was dealing with this alone,  _ I _ was out bedding half the girls in Hanamura.”

Tracer giggled. “And Keiko, the other half?” 

Genji laughed. “Pretty much.”

“Everyone except that damned girl in the motorbike shop!” 

Genji doubled-over with mirth. 

Tracer cackled. She felt better - comfortable, joking and laughing. She wanted to lay down beside him, hand in hand, and laugh and kiss and keep him in bed until he missed his plane tomorrow.  _ Don’t kill your brother, _ she begged in her head as she looked up into his stupid visor,  _ Don’t go to Japan tomorrow. Stay here. _ She looked up at him as if he could read her thoughts. All she got back was the emotionless gaze of Genji’s glowing-green visor. She knocked on his helmet.

“Ow…” he said.

“Hate, hate,  _ hate _ that thing…” Tracer said, smiling a half smile, “Feel like you always got one on me, y’know?”  _ Felt like that last night, when you remembered everything and I just remember pieces. Felt like that back in Overwatch, when Ange knew every inch of you and I knew fuck-all.  _ “Must be nice. I always try to be real-” Tracer hopped off the bed, then stood up straight and puffed out her chest, fists on her hips, “-real stoic and all. Like Jack used to be.” 

Tracer walked towards the window, staring up at the storm cloud, black on the dark sky. She hugged herself. “But then I get mad and I just have to curse or hit something, or something’s sad the waterworks get started and I can’t stop ‘em, or something funny happens and I laugh even if I’m not supposed to. I don’t know how to stop it.” She should stop it right now, she thought. Reel it back, make a joke or change the subject to something that didn’t mean anything. 

“I like that you are that way,” Genji said to her back. She didn’t turn around.

“Yeah, well, it’s all well and good for  _ you _ , Mr. Metal Face. For me I gots to walk about regretting half the things I do.”  _ At a disadvantage. _ Scared to start because once it starts it won’t stop. Scared to get hooked, because once she’s hooked the hook’s going to have to be ripped out. 

That same mean memory invaded her mind again. Late night. Electric lights buzzing. The rhythmic clatter of the tube trains. A cold, sterile woman’s voice announcing “this is the last train of the evening.” Standing alone in the station with a handmade sign. “Welcome home, Thomas.” 

_ He  _ has  _ to go to Japan, _ her mind warned her,  _ Uncouple from him now, or it’ll just hurt more.  _ Screaming into the receiver. Her thumb smashing on the “end call” button in the middle of his sentence.  _ I love you, L-. _

“Lena,” Genji said. 

“Hm?” Tracer asked, and put her chin to her shoulder. There was something strange in the corner of her eye - black and pink. She turned, then gasped.

Genji’s eyes were brown. Not like hers - all yellowy like fall leaves - but rich and dark. Soft. Clever. He had a hawkish nose with a ribbon of scar tissue across it. His brows were thick and pointed - one was cloven in half by more scar tissue. His jaw was black - some kind of synthetic material that traced across his bottom lip and down his whole chin. He was smiling. It was a crooked, shy, sheepish smile.  _ Adorable _ . He got more nervous the longer she scrutinized him. She could  _ see _ him getting nervous. She could  _ see  _ it on his  _ face _ , his  _ face _ ! He looked down at his lap, tittering and pulling off the top of his visor. 

Tracer peeped. “You have hair!”

Genji looked back up at her and blinked. She  _ watched _ him blinking. Saw him raise his brows, then laugh and show his teeth and run his mechanical hand back through the shock of black hair.

“Mm,” he said. She saw his lips form words, in that weird mismatched way that came from using live translators. “It always looks bad, though. The helmet flattens it out.” Genji fluffed and plucked at it a little. When he did, he squinted one eye.

“You have  _ hair _ , and you’re  _ vain  _ about it!” Tracer laughed almost manically. Genji smiled like he was holding back a laugh. She could tell. She could  _ see _ it.

“Did you think I was bald under here?” he asked, grinning. Grinning! Grinning like a little  _ shit _ .

“I thought you were  _ metal _ under there!” Tracer laughed and blinked into his lap. She looked over his face close-up, like a child at an aquarium looking through the glass at a fish from the sea. Tracer eyed his forehead, and each brow, His eyes, his  _ eyes! _ Down his nose and to his lips. She was so elated, her brain didn’t stop her.

“Why didn’t you kiss me last night?” Tracer asked, “Why’d you push me away?” She hated it the second she asked. Naked, raw… Out on a tube platform, all alone, glue and glitter on her fingers, holding a sign he’d never see.

“You were drunk, Lena,” Genji said.

“So?” she said.

“So, I don’t do that.” His brows pinched together. 

“You fucked half the girls in Hanamura,” Tracer laughed without mirth, “And never once?”

“No.”

“Not even when you didn’t like the girl all that much?”

“You think I do not like you?”

Tracer swallowed. Genji tilted his head. She saw him look from her eyes to her lips.

“Lena,” he thrummed, and his hand went to her waist and tugged until her belly touched his, and her knees slid down so she was straddling him. Like this, she was above him, and he was  _ close _ . “I didn’t kiss you then, because…” His hands pressed down from her waist to her hips. His breath was on her lips and chin. She felt it again - her pulse in her ears. The bird caged in her chest.

“Because when I kiss you-” Genji said, voice sibilant, “-I want you to remember it.”

Tracer tried to hide it. She pressed her lips tight together - pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Squeezed her shoulders forward, but a quick snort got out. Genji leaned back. His sharp brows came together in puzzlement. That broke the floodgates. Tracer fell forward and  _ howled _ with laughter. Genji’s shoulder sank under her.

“That was so... _ bad! _ ” she cackled. 

Genji sighed. “It sounds better in Japanese.”

Tracer made a goofy, exaggerated imitation of his voice. “‘When I kiss you I want you to remember it.’” She laughed over his shoulder. “What does that even  _ mean _ ?”

“The girl’s in Hanamura always melted when I would say that,” Genji told her haughtily. Tracer cackled louder.

“So-” she began, needing to catch her breath before continuing, “-so you used a  _ recycled _ cheesy line on me?” She laughed some more, and finally, she felt Genji’s shoulder shaking against her chest.

“It does not mean anything, now that I think about it,” he said. Tracer threw her head back. They both laughed until she had to wipe tears from the edge of her eyes. She had imagined a hundred times what Genji would look like when he laughed - how his face might match his soft, lilting chuckles. No amount of imagining compared. He squeezed his eyes shut and laughed through a sweet, endearing grin. He had very straight teeth. It made his scars and black jaw less unsettling. He looked almost like a kid, except for his distinct smile lines. Genji opened his eyes and spoke.

“I guess it just sounded kind of      roman-” 

She kissed him. It was tight-lipped, and her puggish nose wrinkled against his at first until she turned her head just right. Genji kissed her just like he always hugged her. At first, nothing -  receiving it and giving nothing back. Then, slow but firm he responded; pressed it;  _ deepened _ it. One hand reached up and threaded his fingers in her hair. His other hand grasped her hip. He opened her mouth to his. His lower lip, black and fake, was surprisingly soft. 

The bird in the cage fluttered wildly. Her pulse hammered in her ear. Genji ended it before tongues got involved. He nipped her top lip before leaning back. She opened her eyes. Genji was looking back at her. His eyes were soft but clever. He was grinning like a little shit.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Tracer whispered. 

Genji quirked an eyebrow at her. “I could make it harder,” he joked.

Tracer laughed. “Dirty bugger!” she said with false offense. “Kiss me again, yeah?”

Genji’s grin got wider.  _ Little shit! _ she thought, then his lips were on hers. This time, tongues  _ definitely _ got involved. Warm, then hot, but slow. They took their time. None of that jaw-unhinging, tongues-battling-for-dominance crap. It was smooth, and coaxing. The kiss was not  _ dispassionate _ by any stretch, but it was patient - almost polite.

Tracer wasn’t sure how long it lasted - forever, and still over too soon. Her face felt hot. When Genji leaned back, her breath was heavy. 

“Spicy,” Genji said, grinning. 

Tracer giggled. “Lip-biting is your signature move, I see!”

“Not with my teeth!” Genji laughed, “I'm not a barbarian.”

That made Tracer snort with laughter. It gradually quieted, until Tracer realized that they were  _ staring _ into each other's  _ eyes _ \- like  _ idiots _ . She thought of a good joke, but studying Genji’s rich brown eyes, she held off on it. Where the light hit his irises they were almost  _ orange _ . How’d that work? There was a quiet, distant peal of thunder. Tracer tensed. 

“What’s wrong?” Genji asked. Tracer tucked into him a bit and shook her head.

“N-nothing!” she said. 

“Too much?” Genji asked. His brows came together. He was worried.

“No!” she piped, her hands on his sides. Genji looked unconvinced.

“Is it-” Genji’s voice halted, “-my face?”

“No, luv!” Tracer said quickly, “No, not at all! It’s...well it’s…”

Genji leaned back, expression getting dull and sullen.

“Really, it’s,” - she searched for the right words here and came up short - “quite nice!” She knew it sounded like a lie, but it  _ was  _ nice. The scars were a little off-putting, and the jaw would take some time to get used to, but more than finding him any kind of handsome, Tracer was just so happy to be able to read his expressions. Right now, his expression told her he didn’t believe her.

“Honest!” she said. “I kissed you didn’t I? Even with your cheesy line.”

Genji’s skeptical expression broke with a sheepish, crooked smirk that was, yes,  _ quite _ nice. “I suppose that is true,” he said.

“Yeah!” Tracer said, poking his sides, “I kissed ya  _ real _ good, eh?” She leaned forward and smacked a dozen goofy kisses on Genji’s cheek, making him laugh. She stopped to nuzzle at his temple, just at the edge of his synthetic ears. They both stopped laughing. She rubbed her cheek against his. Her hands moved up his sides, then on his back. Her fingers smoothed over the areas she knew were still skin; across the vast dragon tattoo she’d seen earlier. Then, hesitating, she fingered one of the buttons on his back - the one that would release the armor on his shoulder. 

“Maybe we could get some of this off, yeah?” she said. Genji tensed and grasped her by the shoulders, pushing her back.

“What are you doing?” he asked. His beetle-browed expression made him look suddenly intense and intimidating. There was a hint of fear in his deep, brown eyes.

“I just thought we could get more comfy, y’know?” Tracer’s voice halted through the whole sentence. She offered a tight-lipped laugh. 

Genji only scowled back. “How do you know what those buttons do?”

Tracer swallowed. “Ehhh, well, y’see…” - she dipped her head - “I didn’t want to say anything, but, em, after that Omnic knocked you out, you didn’t just wake up all better.” Tracer felt warm. She should have told him right away, she realized in that moment.

“What?” Genji asked, sharp brows pinched together. 

“You wouldn’t start up! I had to do  _ something _ ,” she argued.

“ _ What _ did you  _ do _ ?”

“I, em… hard-reset your cooling systems.”

“How?”

“W-well, you unplug ‘em and plug ‘em back in.”

Genji’s eyes bulged. “To do that you would have to…” Then, his face twisted with anger. He stood, pushing her off his lap. She slipped backwards into her feet, standing and facing him.

“I’m sorry,” Tracer said, following him as he took up the pieces of his helmet and walked to the door, “I should have told you.”

Genji spun on her. “Why would you do this?” he asked. “What were you  _ thinking _ ?”

That irked Tracer. “I was  _ thinking  _ you were dead, or dying! I wasn’t going to stand by if I could do something. Get over yourself!”

“It was not your place to-”

“My  _ place? _ ” Tracer snarled. “Don’t  _ dare  _ to ever say that to me again.”

Genji shut his eyes and took a breath. “I only meant that Dr. Ziegler is the only person who has an in-depth knowledge of-”

“Oh,  _ right! _ ” Tracer rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air, “Let me just ring her up in Russia, I’m sure she would have been back in time to do your  _ autopsy! _ ”

Genji wouldn’t look at her. It was quiet between them, for many moments, before he said, “You should have told me.”

“Maybe, yeah, but-”

“You  _ should  _ have  _ told  _ me.”

Tracer scowled. At her sides, her hands were fists. “Yeah. I should have,” she admitted.

More silence. Genji put the top of his helmet back on, covering his shock of black hair. 

“I leave early tomorrow,” he said, moving to the doorway. He slipped the door key to Mercy’s abandoned hotel room off the table.

“Yeah, of  _ course  _ you do, that’s why-!” Tracer stopped herself and looked down at the floor. He would go tomorrow, and it would be over. Maybe this way was better. She felt his fingers on her chin. Genji tilted her face up to look at him. His thumb brushed her bottom lip. He didn’t look angry anymore - he looked sad. That was way, way worse. His hand went to her waist.

Genji kissed her like a fairy tale. It was soft, mouth closed and lips gentle. It was slow and sweet as honey; patient; almost courteous. He kissed her the way a lord might kiss an ingenue's hand in a Victorian romance - passionate but reserved. Genji was supposed to be a womanizing Yakuza, not a prince. They were two very  _ impolite _ people from over-polite societies, and they still managed to kiss like prudes. Tracer didn't mind. Most of the people she’d dated kissed like Lord Byron. This was kind of nice, actually - except for the overwhelming feeling that it was a kiss goodbye.

Tracer’s face felt warm when they leaned away from one another. She opened her eyes. Genji was putting the mask back over his face.

“Goodnight, Lena,” Genji said. He opened and shut the door, off to sleep in Mercy’s vacant room across the hall.  _ Follow him _ , her heart insisted. Instead, Tracer turned away from the door and threw herself on the bed. She heard thunder rolling in the distance and shivered.  _ He’s going to Japan tomorrow, _ she told herself,  _ Let him _ . She couldn’t let herself feel it, because if she did she wouldn’t be able to stop. Tracer ripped the hook out. It was so early, just a day really. 

It still hurt. It still hurt like  _ hell _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh! Trouble in paradise... Don't worry, though, guys. We'll see more next week.  
> Remember, I'm STREAMING OVERWATCH right after I post this chapter, ~9PM EST. Join me at https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher !!
> 
> I want to give some thanks out:
> 
> First, much love to my beta readers, Doc & Chiptooth. You guys really gave me some great perspective and have wonderful ideas and insights. The fic is better for their contributions. Also big ups to my buddy Mori for helping me with British slang.
> 
> Second, thank you so much to everyone who have left kudos and comments. I get so much energy and inspiration from the love and support you guys send my way, and my work gets better with every chapter thanks to your insightful suggestions and critiques. This fic started with me writing a few self-indulgence scenes with no plan to post them, but there was so little Tracer x Genji content I decided to share it. I never expected so many wonderful people to enjoy it. I am going to make an effort to reply to everyone, but if I don't, please know I read every comment and hoard them away in my little soul for the warm fuzzies. I love all of you <3
> 
> On that note, one of those self-indulgent scenes is coming up next week. I've been bouncing in my chair waiting to get to this one. I can't wait for you guys to read it.  
> See you next week!


	8. Thunder and Lightning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> I'm running a teensy bit late so I'll make this quick -   
> First off, this chapter contains SEXUAL CONTENT *trumpets blare* so heed the fic rating please!
> 
> Second, I want to say thanks to my beta readers, but this week ESPECIALLY to my Japanese consultant beta reader, Doc. He is the superstar of this chapter - without him, a lot(really, all) the Japanese would have been inaccurate or odd or super childish. He was a GIANT help and took a lot of time out of his schedule to talk with me and help me pick the right words to get Genji's voice right. 
> 
> Third, I'm going to be streaming again tonight at https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher
> 
> Last, I'm going to be playing on a new Tracer x Genji discord server I set up. Join it by clicking this link: https://discord.gg/wf459 The link should last for 24 hours. If you need another one, please leave a comment and I'll post another link.

The storm roared in an hour later, and Tracer was  _ miserable _ . Tucked under the covers of the hotel bed, she had given up any thoughts of sleep. Even through the thick comforter, she could see the flash of the lightning. In near the same instant, monstrous thunder shook the entire hotel. 

Tracer piped an unconscious cry that petered down to a whimper.  _ I hate thunderstorms. I hate them, hate them, hate them!  _ Her fear of storms was not usually this bad, or rather, she could usually clamp down on it better. Right now, though, she was too upset to make an effort. Genji was about to disappear all over again. She knew she shouldn’t care so much, but he’d swept back into her life as fast and strong as this storm, when no one had expected to ever see him again. 

The night Genji left Overwatch, Tracer had been standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Jesse McCree. Tracer didn’t know McCree too well - he was a Blackwatch Agent, and Tracer didn’t work with them often - but she knew Genji was good friends with him. There had been a storm that night, too, light rain leaving tiny dark dots on their uniforms as they both watched Genji walk away. McCree had looked away first. Head down, he’d taken a drag from his cigarillo, coughed, then said “Two graves.” 

Another flash, another great bellow of thunder, and Tracer cried out again, tucking her head under her pillow. 

Before the storm, Tracer had changed into a sleep shirt and shorts using the LAChrA, and had considered leaving it out for the night instead of laying in bed wearing her (uncomfortable) chronal accelerator. The LAChrA bubble, however, did weird things to thunderstorms, distorting the flashes and sounds and making them less predictable. In short - it made them way worse than they already were.

Over the sound of the rain crackling against her window, in the blessed space between thunderclaps, Tracer heard a sound she was not expecting: a knock at her door. She blinked her watery eyes and sat up, peeking out from her blanket fortress. Just as she did, the hotel room lit up like a flash bang. Thunder came close on its heels, and she cried out again. 

There was another knock, more insistent than the first. She braced herself, then got up out of bed. The hotel comforter was a cocoon when she wrapped it around her shoulders. It made her feel a little safer.

Tracer walked barefoot to the door. When she peered through the viewfinder, she got a facefull of Genji’s visor. Embarrassment and relief flooded her at once. She opened the door.

Genji was still wearing his suit, but not his armor. It looked strange. Even though she knew better, he seemed naked without the armor on. She smiled a tight-lipped smile at him.

Tracer tried, and failed, to make her voice even. “Hey Genj. Whatcha’ need?”

Genji tilted his helmeted head at her. “Daijōbu” was the only word that Tracer understood of the Japanese sentence he spoke. She had taken her translator out of her ear when she’d changed for bed, she realized. She adjusted the comforter around her shoulders.

“Ah, nah, I’m fine, er…” Lena tapped her ear. She assumed he didn’t have his translator in either, but she knew almost no Japanese. “Daijōbu...desu…?” she ventured. Genji tilted his head again and replied with fast, incomprehensible Japanese. Tracer shook her head and tapped her ear again. 

Genji looked at her ear. “Ah!” He nodded. “OK? Ah...a-are you OK?” he said with a thick accent. Tracer was pretty sure her accent in Japanese was way worse. “I hear,” Genji put his hand to his forehead and spoke some Japanese to himself, “s-scream? Are you OK?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m f-” The room lit up with stark, brief, horror-movie lighting. Thunder roared in her ears and rumbled her throat. The floor rattled beneath her feet. Tracer cried out unconsciously and put her hands over her ears, dropping the comforter from around her shoulders. It slithered down her body to a pile at her feet. She swallowed, shaking until the thunder passed. Tracer regained her composure, face hot with embarrassment, and opened her mouth to apologize. Genji’s arm went around her as he stepped into the room. He shut the door behind him.

Genji said something else in Japanese, walking her across the room to the small hotel couch he’d slept on the night before. He sat her down, then gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. He left her side, walking back towards the door, then plucked the blanket off the floor. When he returned, he put it around her shoulders, then sat beside her. Lena smiled sheepishly.

“You don’t have to go to all this trouble, luv, it’s no big-” The room lit up again, and Lena squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the coming thunder. Genji’s arm slipped around her shoulder and pulled her to him. The thunder crashed, and she hugged herself to him, face buried in his neck. She could feel the tick of his pulse under the soft rubber. 

Genji rubbed her shoulder. “Daijōbu, Lena-chan.”  _ That  _ was it! That was why her name always sounded longer under the translation - he was using an honorific with her name.  _ Lena-chan. _

Tracer didn’t know a lot about Japanese honorifics, only that “chan,” with many complex social exceptions, was usually used for girls you were close to. Was this the difference between when he called her “Lena” and “Ms. Oxton”?

Tracer realized, tucked against Genji’s side, she wasn’t shaking as bad anymore. She had put her hand against his chest. His heart beat against her palm. Tracer wondered if it was really his heart, or something cybernetic in his chest. It seemed faster than normal - that made her remember another rare bit of Japanese she knew.

“Dōki-dōki?” Tracer said and tapped on his chest. Genji looked away, shrugging into his shoulders. She was puzzled. Why would that be something to be embarrassed about?

“U-unn...” he said, like an admission of guilt.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Genji shook his head at her - he had to have understood what she said. She realized then that a translator must be built into his synthetic ears. 

“You can understand me, can’t you?”

Genji nodded.

Tracer puffed up her cheeks. “Got one on me again, luv,” she said, pinching his side. Beneath the fabric, she felt skin. 

Genji laughed, then paused. His voice took on a more serious tone. “Gomennasai, Lena.” After that, more Japanese. 

Tracer shook her head. “I only know a few `words, Genj, you got to meet me halfway.” 

Genji apologized in Japanese, then in English. “I am sorry. Very sorry, because...ah…” He scratched the back of his said another fast, incomprehensible phrase. It sounded annoyed. He looked around the hotel room, then slipped from her side and crossed the room to her bed. Her tablet was lying there on the nightstand. He picked it up. Her translator was right there, too - she almost told him to grab it for her, but then she thought:  _ Lena-chan _ . She could stand for this to play out a little longer. 

Genji carried the tablet back across the room and sat back beside her. He handed it to Tracer, and she unlocked it. Genji brought up a news article. The headline read, in big, bold lettering: “4 INJURED AFTER OMNIC ATTACK IN CENTRAL PARK. Overwatch ‘Tracer’ uses mechanical triage to save cyborg companion.” Genji scrolled down and highlighted a passage. It was an interview with the paramedic Tracer had talked to.

_ Camila Torres, 46, was a paramedic on the scene. She spoke with the former Overwatch agent about getting the cyborg back up and running. “She cracked him open, she told me, and did a hard-reset. Not, y’know, the most elegant solution, but you do what you got to. …(cont.) It gets tricky when the mechanics keep the organics running. Without the systems on it can cause brain damage, suffocation, all kinds of problems. She probably saved his life.”  _

Tracer bit her lip when she finished reading it, and looked back up Genji. 

“Sumanai, Lena,” he said, “Arigatō.  _ Hontou ni _ arigatō.” Then, more Japanese. Tracer’s face felt warm. She smiled at him. 

“Ahhh, it was nothing!” she said. “I saved your metal butt plenty of times when we were in Overwatch!” 

Genji tilted his head and spoke again. She didn’t know what he said, but there was clear amusement in his voice.

Tracer puffed up her cheeks. “Cut that out, you know I can’t und-” The room lit up like candlelight and Tracer peeped, burying her face in Genji’s neck and bracing for the inevitable crash. Genji slipped his arm around her and hugged her close. Two anxious seconds later, the thunder came. When it struck it was still too loud, but not near as loud as before. Genji said something else in Japanese, then followed it again with “Gomen.”

“Clouds go,” he said haltingly as he made a waving motion towards the window.

“The storm’s goin’ away from us, yeah,” Tracer said, relieved. She slipped one arm out of her blanket and wrapped it around his waist. Reluctantly, she said, “You can go back to your room. I’m a big girl, I’ll be ok.” Still she clutched him just as hard, and harder again when another roll of thunder clapped in the distance. Tracer was still surprised to find that Genji’s body wasn’t cold, though she imagined it was warm from electricity as much as blood and muscle.

“I go?” Genji pointed to the door. 

Tracer nodded. “Yeah, you can go if you want, luv.”

“Do  _ you _ want?” 

Tracer paused. She  _ didn’t _ want him to go, and another flash of lightning made her clutch him tight again. She looked across the room to the bed. The idea of spending the thunderous night alone wasn’t very appealing. Beyond that, Genji was going to see Hanzo tomorrow.  _ Two graves. _ She had to try  _ something _ . “Or instead, maybe… well, the bed might be more comfy, yeah?”

Genji didn’t answer right away. Tracer looked up at him, and in the dim light of hotel room she could see he’d shrunk into his shoulders again.

“Iiyo,” Genji said, and started to get up.

Tracer stopped him. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah-” he began, looked away from her, then looked back. Her hand was still over his heart. He put his hand over hers.

“...dōki-dōki...” She only caught the one word, but from the shakiness of his voice, Tracer felt she might understand what had been lost in translation when she’d said it earlier. 

They stood up and she pulled the comforter off, leaving it on the hard, scratchy couch. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they walked across the room, then sat down on the edge of the bed. 

For a while, they sat beside one another in awkward silence. She looked up at his helmet, pursed her lips, and knocked on it. 

Genji flinched. “Ita…” he yelped, then poked her side. 

Tracer let out a peep that turned into a giggle. 

A moment later, Genji reached up behind his synthetic ears. She heard a click and the hiss of steam. The green light of his visor blinked off, and he casually pulled the lower half of the mask off and set it aside. 

She smiled a big, broad smile, and he smiled back at her, warm and sweet. She poked the metal part on his forehead. “This part too!”

He obliged, pulling it off like a helmet. 

Tracer covered a laugh with her hand when he fluffed his tuft of hair back up. Her girlish giggle got cut short by another flash of lighting. 

He clutched her to his side until the thunder struck and rolled away. 

She leaned leaned into his chest, tucking her head in the space between his chin and his clavicle. “It must seem so dumb, a grown woman, scared of thunder, eh?” Tracer looked down in her lap. 

Genji spoke another string of Japanese, and she heard another word she recognized. He didn't say “gomen” afterwards. 

She punched him in the arm. “Cut that out! Now you’re doing it on purpose!” 

Genji chuckled - low and lilting with pronounced smile lines. “Warui, warui.” Now he was smiling in earnest. 

She loved how easily he laughed. “And it’s  _ not _ cute,” Tracer insisted. “That’s right, I know what that word means!” Tracer blew a raspberry at him. 

He laughed again and leaned in, so his hawk-like nose nearly touched hers. “Iyaaa Kawa _ ii _ - **i** …” he repeated, teasing her. 

She pinched his sides. “Am not, am not!” 

Genji only laughed more as she leaned her weight forward and pinned him beneath her, sticking out her bottom lip. “I’m a big bad Overwatch agent, you know! I’ve beat up plenty of guys tougher than you, ya’ robo-gangster!”

Genji’s laughter petered off to a broad, warm grin.  _ A little shit, _ Tracer thought. Lightning flashed through the curtains. She tensed, and got a brief look at him in the light. 

Genji’s face was such a novelty to her. His webbed scars and black jaw did make him look a little monstrous, she admitted to herself, but beneath that she could see that he must have been handsome once. 

“Bet you made the girls’ hearts beat fast all the time, back when you were younger, eh?” Tracer giggled. She flushed when he answered with a charming smirk.

“Unn…” he said, then spoke in Japanese again. She didn't know what he said, but his expression fell to melancholy. 

Tracer pinched his nose. “None of that,” she said, then leaned forward so their bodies were as flush as they could be with the bulky chronal accelerator between them. “I like you the way you are now, yeah?” She hesitated, just a moment, then kissed him.

This time, Genji responded right away. He went for the upper lip first, his signature move. Then, he tilted his head and teased his tongue between her lips intermittently, but didn’t push it farther than that. She felt his mechanical hand slide up her cheek, then to thread in her short hair. 

Tracer got impatient. She opened his mouth to hers. He made a soft noise from his chest and up through his throat, then matched her insistence. She felt one hand smooth over her hip and press her down against him. They both leaned back in unison.

“Whoa…” she breathed, looking down into Genji’s hooded eyes. 

He smiled at her. “Unn,” he thrummed, looking to her lips again. Another flash of lightning lit his face. 

Tracer flinched, waiting for the thunder. Just as it struck, Genji kissed her again, fast and hard. She would have gasped if she could have, but he made her mouth his. One hand clutched the back of her neck. The other moved down from her hip to her thigh. He pulled her thigh outward so she halfway straddled him. 

Tracer made a strangled noise from her throat, and it refreshed his enthusiasm for a few seconds before he drew back. He nipped her bottom lip once. It was gentle, but she felt his teeth. He hummed a quiet growl that made her warm all over. She heard her pulse in her ear; felt it ticking in her neck. The bird in her rib cage fluttered. Tracer realized she was panting. She swallowed to wet her throat.

Genji was grinning. 

“Little shit,” she rasped.

He raised one of his sharp brows. She caught the word “kuso” amidst his Japanese. Then he broke into a childish chuckle. “...kuso-yarou da...” were the only words she understood.

Tracer snorted. “Yeah, that’s you!” She pinched his side again.

“Yamete!” he laughed. 

“Are you ticklish?” Tracer prodded his side experimentally.

Genji tried to push her hand away, laughing.

“You  _ are _ !” she said in triumph. “Oh, you’re in trouble now, tough guy! I know this is the side with the soft bits!”

Genji laughed, squirming beneath her in a way that was cute and tantalizing at once. “Yametekure!” 

She did not. He growled again, but this time is was playful; it rumbled out between his grinning teeth. Genji grabbed her hands and rolled so he was above her, pinning her arms at her sides. Tracer puffed her cheeks up. He sat up, then released one of her wrists to pump his fist in the air. He victoriously declared something in Japanese. 

“Oh yeah?” Tracer grinned. Genji had superhuman reflexes, sure, but she had time on her side. The light from her chronal accelerator flared as she activated its power. Using her one freed hand, she grabbed his wrist faster than should be possible, then wrenched his arm down and threw her weight into it. 

Genji’s side and shoulder hit the bed. She rolled with him, then sat up. Straddling him, she used her hips to roll him from his side to his back. He blinked up at her. She had bent time. To him, it probably felt like he was above her one instant and below her the next.

Tracer grinned. “You’re fast, metal man, but you'll never be as fast as me!” 

Genji turned his head from her. He was shrugging into his shoulders. Lightning flashed. He took her hand and held it until the distant thunder passed. She couldn't be sure from the low hint of illumination the far-off lightning had given off, but she thought he looked flush. 

“What's the matter?” 

Genji said something in Japanese.

She puffed out her cheeks. “Hey, come on!”

He swallowed, then took the hand he was holding and put it on his chest. “...dōki-dōki shiteru,” he said. It  _ was  _ beating fast. Tracer adjusted on top of him and thought she…  _ felt _ something. Genji swallowed a noise, and turned his head even more away from her. A warm thrill rushed up through her. Now, it was her turn to blush.

Tracer rolled her hips once, experimentally. Genji screwed his eyes shut and gasped. Tracer leaned forward. She rolled her hips again, and as she did, ran her hands down from his shoulders, over his chest, and down his stomach. Genji squirmed beneath her, his hand sliding up her bare thigh. She felt some  _ more _ something.  _ How much of him is still human? _

“Not much” weren’t the words she’d use.

She started moving in a rhythm, and she felt Genji’s hand on her thigh flex tight, metal fingers digging into the skin there. His other hand was laid on the bed above his head. He switched between shutting his mouth tight to muffle his unconscious vocalizations, and opening his lips to gasp or pant. Tracer was surprised that this little motion seemed to rile him up so much, but she was beyond pleased. 

Genji found his voice, but when he did it was thready, strained - more breath than voice. “Lena,” he begged, “n-no!”

Despite roaring protests from her libido, she stopped. She felt stung in some way. “Sorry, luv,” she whispered.

Genji caught his breath, and swallowed. He whispered something in Japanese and looked up at her with a weak smile. She smiled back.

“You alright?” she asked. 

He nodded and moved out from under her, sitting up and crossing his legs. He buried his face in her neck and emitted something between a laugh and a groan.

Tracer giggled. “It's ok to admit all o’ this sexy British moxy was too much for you, luv!” 

Genji chuckled and rolled his head back, saying something whiny in Japanese. 

She kissed his cheek, feeling the texture of his scar tissue on her lips. “Do you wanna stay over,” she asked, “or do y’need to cool off after all of this?” She gestured down the length of her body and shot him a goofy, fake-sexy grin. 

Genji’s lips thinned into a flat smirk. He leaned in slow as honey and nuzzled the line of her chin. She felt his breath on her jaw, and his fingers ghosting at the thin peek of skin between her sleep shirt and her shorts. He pressed his lips to her neck, and Tracer gasped. He was a little  _ too  _ good at that. He kissed her neck with slow, undulating moments, sucking on her pulse, letting her feel his tongue, but only barely. 

His palms pushed up her shirt to bare her stomach and back, sweeping across the sensitive skin. She shivered. His fingers teased her waistband until it was situated low on her hips. The tip of his nose traced across her temple, then she felt his breath on her ear.

Tracer had never really thought of Japanese as a  _ sexy  _ language like French or Spanish, but whatever Genji rasped against her ear sounded  _ very  _ sexy. She had no idea what he was saying, but the way his hands moved on her, she had a pretty good idea of the general thrust of it. 

He leaned back and looked her in the eye. One of his hands moved to her knee, then up the inside of her thigh. He tilted his head as if to kiss her. His fingers slipped into the leg of her shorts but didn’t go farther than that, tracing lines just shy of where she wanted his fingers to be. She felt his breath on her lips, but when she leaned in to kiss him, he leaned back. Tracer blinked. She looked at him. He had a wide, smug grin.

“Little  _ shit! _ ” she piped and pushed his shoulder. Genji laughed and laid back, his head on one of the pillows. He rubbed a spot on the bed next to him. Tracer puffed her cheeks. She didn't feel sleepy - she felt like a clock that had been wound way,  _ way  _ too tight. Still, he was smiling up at her; a calm, welcoming smile. Tomorrow might be the end, and she wanted to enjoy the time they had left. 

She flopped down next to him, then tucked herself under his arm with her back against his stomach. He tangled their legs together and held her hand in his. She rubbed her butt against him and he laughed. She could hear the rain against the window, but the thunder was gone. Genji breathed steadily against her back. Tracer settled down. Soon, she dozed off, her and Genji’s fingers twined together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genji's such a tease... I think his pride got a little hurt after Tracer riled him up so much so he had to bust out those old playboy moves on her. *waggles eyebrows*
> 
> A big thank you again to all my readers, you're all the best <3 I hope you guys join me for the stream or in the discord channel tonight.


	9. Armor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> Only a couple notes  
> 1) As always, I'm streaming tonight right after posting the chapter, ~9PM EST Http://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher/  
> 2) Much love to all my readers. Thank you for the wonderful comments and kudos, I'm so grateful you guys enjoy my story!

_ The hotel room was trashed.  _

_ Neon light bled in through the venetian blinds, casting Dr. Angela Ziegler’s pale face, hair, and clothes in yellow and blue. Genji eyed the little wrinkle between her brows as she looked beside her at the tiny, open kitchen. He followed her gaze. Ceramic shards of a broken mug were scattered on the kitchen’s little patch of tile. A cabinet door hung from one hinge. Her lips pursed into a gentle frown.  _

_ Across from the kitchen and Mercy and the doorway were the hotel room’s two large windows. Genji leaned languid against the strip of wall that separated them. Swaying blinds brushed his mechanical shoulders. The top half of his visor was askew. He wasn't sure where the bottom half was. He hadn't been out of this room in… five days? Six? _

_ The soothing, inoffensive prints of African landscapes hung askew on the walls. He’d overturned the office desk at some point, but wasn’t sure which night it had been. Mercy stood amidst the chaos like a ballet dancer, her back against the closed hotel room door. She looked, as ever, almost too perfect to be real. It reminded Genji of someone. It made him sick. _

_ “You look drunk,” Mercy said. _

_ “I can no longer drink, thanks to you,” Genji said. _

_ There was that same single wrinkle on her brow again; the same purse-lipped frown. “Let me fix your arm.” _

_ Genji turned his head left and stared at his shoulder. His left arm was hanging on by a single rivet and a few wires. It lolled limply at his side, too damaged to be functional. _

_ “Why bother,” he wondered aloud. He stumbled over the crumpled sheets near his feet to the bed in the corner, then flopped backwards onto the bare, stained mattress.  _

_ Mercy ballet-stepped to the middle of the room, closer but not close. She righted an overturned chair, then sat down on it. She crossed her legs at her ankles and smoothed her skirts. Her shoulders were back, in perfect posture. “Why did you come to Numbani if you were just going to shut yourself up in this room?” _

_ “I go out all the time.” _

_ “The smell suggests otherwise,” she said primly.  _

_ Out of the corner of his eye, Genji caught her sticking her nose in the air. It reminded him of someone. He curled his lip over his full set of perfectly-straight, fake teeth. _

_ “I thought seeing this city would give you hope,” Mercy said. The sentence dripped with saccharin. _

_ “You thought wrong,” he told the ceiling, “Hanzo is not here.” _

_ Mercy huffed. _

_ “What,” he grunted.  _

_ “I wish you would give up on this crusade to kill your brother,” Mercy said. There was no anger or malice in her voice. _

_ “It is what I do,” Genji said. “It is what I am. When Hanzo is dead, I-” Genji paused, and the next words were barely more than a breath, “-I am no more.” _

_ Mercy’s voice quavered. “You don’t believe that Genji, I know you don’t.”  _

_ “Did you come here to protect Overwatch’s investment, Dr. Ziegler?” He laughed a single, bitter laugh. _

_ “I’m not here for Overwatch, Genji,” she said. “I’m here for you. I hate to see you like this.” _

_ “Your perfect machine squandering in a shit hotel room.” Genji grinned. “It makes me feel kind of good, if I am honest.” _

_ “You’re not a machine, Genji-” _

_ He roared off the bed and crossed the room to her in three inhumanly-fast steps. He faced her - loomed over her. “Do not tell me what I am. My life does not belong to you,  _ Angela Ziegler _.” He said her name like a curse; gripped the arm of the chair with his one good arm and leaned in closer to her. Mercy looked terrified. Good. _

_ “I don’t belong here,” he howled. “I didn’t belong in Overwatch. I belong  _ nowhere _. I don’t want to be this  _ thing  _ anymore!” His voice broke. He leaned back; turned from her. His father's voice thrummed in his head:  _ Don't cry. Men don't cry.  _ This woman had seen everything of him. He wouldn’t let her see this, too. _

_ Genji stood still with his back to her, staring at the street through the gaps in the blinds - through the water in his eyes. He waited until he knew his voice would come out even. “I was made to kill Hanzo. Gabriel told me that, the day I woke up in your medbay. It is my purpose. When Hanzo is dead, my purpose is fulfilled. I can die with honor.” _

_ “Gabriel is a liar!” Mercy’s voice was harsh and raw - nothing like the clarian timber it usually had.  _

_ Genji turned to face her.  _

_ Mercy had stood up from her chair. Her palm was pressed to her chest. “I was there. Did you know? I was there with him at Shimada Castle seven years ago. I heard you stand up to your brother, tell him to stop extorting the people of Hanamura, stop trafficking guns and drugs and girls.” Mercy’s voice hitched. “ _ That’s  _ why I saved you, Genji. Because I knew there was good in you. I know there still is.” Saccharin. So sweet it made him sick. Her sympathetic expression disgusted him.  _ Men don’t eat sweets either.

_ Genji shifted, and his loose arm lolled against his side. “Then you saw what he did to me as well. You saw him push me off that balcony, and what he did after.” He made his face hard and unmoving as a stone. The Dragon.  _

_ Mercy swallowed. Genji saw the fear in her eyes. “Yes,” she said. _

_ “The fall alone could have killed me, but that was not enough. Hanzo had to use our own power against me. The dragons do not hurt allies. They pass through them and leave them unharmed. To do this-” Genji traced his fingers across the web of scars on his face, “-means he thought of me as, not an opponent, but an  _ enemy _. He wanted me dead, not just in his mind but in his  _ soul _. My own brother.”  _

_ Genji’s voice broke. He turned away from her again and put his face in his cold, mechanical hand. His throat spasmed as the hot tears in his eyes finally escaped down his scarred cheeks. Somewhere in the vast, modern streets of Numbani, a car alarm went off. He jumped when he felt Mercy’s thin, warm fingers touch his shoulder. _

_ “Don’t!” he shrieked.  _

_ She plucked her hand away. For a long time, the only sound was his hoarse, quiet sobs and the distant car alarm.  _

_ “Just go, Dr. Ziegler,” he said, defeated. “I do not wish you here.” _

_ She was breathing behind him, slow and shaky. “I will go,” she said. Her voice was throaty. “But you must promise me you will not hurt yourself. Promise me I will see you again, Genji. Please.” _

_ The car alarm was getting louder somehow. Genji held his hand over his eyes. “As long as Hanzo lives, so do I,” he said. “If you wish to see me again, pray that I do not find him.” _

Genji started awake, the alarm protocol shrieking from his electronic brain into his synthetic ears. He winced and ran the code to shut it off. The time on his internal clock: 5AM. He groaned and sat up, stretching. No time for morning meditation, and he sorely needed it.

The dream was still floating at the edge of his consciousness. After his brain had been reconstructed, he’d started having “memory-dreams.” In the combination mental rest and defrag that happened when he slept, he would sometimes dream the past like a home movie, often with subtle, surreal differences. Things from before the surgery were hazier, like normal memories. Anything from after that, though, replayed vividly - sights, sounds, scents, all recorded in perfect detail on a hard-drive installed in his half-destroyed skull.

With something between a thought and a command, Genji found Zenyatta’s IP address and sent a request to connect. As it pinged him, Genji looked down at Tracer. She shifted, cooed, then curled up again. Her quiet snores sounded like wind, and there was a spot of drool on the pillow. Genji chuckled. 

Lost examining her sleeping, he was startled when the attempted connection to Zenyatta timed out. He knew his master was busy doing the funeral rights for Mondatta, but Omnics were great multitaskers. Zenyatta should at least have the bandwidth to tell him “not right now.” Maybe the data-decoding and transfer was more taxing than Genji expected, or maybe Zenyatta had cut himself off from outside connections for religious reasons. As much time as Genji had spent in Nepal, there were still aspects of the Shambali’s practices that he didn’t understand fully. 

Tracer stirred. Genji pushed off thoughts of his master, resolving to try him back later. Tracer blinked up at him and smiled, twining her fingers in his when he reached for her hand. “Too early,” she said. “The sun’s not even up yet. When’s your flight?”

Genji smiled down at her. “Eight-thirty.” 

“Hold on,” she said. She released his hand, then pawed at the night stand until she found the small earpiece translator. “What time,” she asked again once she’d stuffed the device in her ear.

Genji repeated it.

Tracer looked at the digital clock by the bed, then puffed her cheeks. “Come back to bed. You never have to actually be there as early as they say.”

“When you’re a cyborg and your checked baggage is a pair of samurai swords, you do.” Genji stroked her hair. “Go back to sleep. I will ready quietly.”

“Wot, with your ninja skills?” Tracer teased, bleary-eyed. She groaned and pushed herself up to her knees. “Nah, I want to go to the airport with you.”

Genji smiled again, a little sad, then pulled her into his lap. She stuck her legs out on either side of him, her butt resting on his knees. He had to look up at her this way. It was nice.

As wild as her hair was usually, in the morning it was worse, sticking up and out from her head and down in her eyes in jagged sections. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, and her hazel eyes were hooded with sleep. 

“Last night was nice, yeah?” she said.

Genji hummed. “I should not have indulged so. I feel that I left us both frustrated.”

That made her giggle. “That comes from not indulging enough, luv.”

He put his hands on her waist. She was rail-thin, a little beanpole of energy, and those  _ legs _ . His hands followed them from her waist down to her knees. They went on  _ forever _ .

She kissed him, said “you could push the flight back a few hours, eh?” 

Genji sighed with longing. It sounded so tempting. His hands moved back up her thighs and she cooed, responsive. “I cannot,” he said. Genji could hear the disappointment in her sigh. 

What was he doing? He knew when he came to New York that he would go to Japan to confront Hanzo days later. Perhaps it was his old, impulsive playboy habits coming back, or Mercy’s ham-handed attempt at matchmaking. Tracer’s lips on his pulse the night before had awakened something - opening a door that, when he liked her in Overwatch, he had told himself was firmly shut. 

Not for the first time, he felt Zenyatta’s absence. It was easy to avoid such relationships amidst the ascetic monks of Nepal - but would his master approve of this transient, romantic entanglement? Tracer was at the edge of his vision, and he realized she was staring at him. He turned to look at her, puzzled. Her ears turned pink as she laughed nervously.

“Sorry, just…” Tracer lifted her hand, hesitated, then traced one of the webbed scars on his face. “How...did you get these? I’ve never seen anything like ‘em. Are they burns?”

He made sure to be gentle when he moved her hand away from his face. “Something like that.”

She chewed her lip. “Was it Hanzo?”

Genji lifted her from his lap. “I have to get ready.”

“That’s a yes,” she sighed, falling back onto the bed. 

Genji found the two pieces of his visor on the floor beside the bed. He pushed back his hair, then situated the helm on his head. 

Tracer piped a protest when he lifted the jaw piece. He stopped. She leapt off the bed, stood in front of him, put her arms around him.

In some ways, Genji had been kissed like this many times before: hard and melancholy, a fiery appeal for him to stay even just a moment longer. Kisses like this were a token pressed into his hand, alongside the whispered words “ _ something to remember me by.” _

In other ways, no one had ever kissed him the way Tracer did. It reminded him of  _ cafe da -  _ sweet and strong in equal measure. It was fearless the way children are fearless: falling off the swing, scraping your knee, wailing with pained tears, then getting back in the swing five minutes later. She pursed her lips so they folded together with his one last time, then leaned back. Her eyes were glassy, and she grinned at him from ear-to-ear. 

In a rush, he remembered why he’d liked her so much all those years ago. She really was the opposite of Hanzo or Dr. Ziegler or Jack Morrison or even Keiko. They all stood stoic and implacable in the face of pain, head-to-toe in their own kind of armor: Hanzo(his standoffishness), Dr. Ziegler(her care for others), Jack(his job), Keiko(her boisterous irreverence). 

Tracer was elastic. She’d been pulled and twisted and bent in so many ways. To say it hadn’t hurt her was wrong, but she had  _ flowed  _ with it like a stream. While Genji spent nearly a decade accepting what he had become, she’d bolted out of the slipstream accident like a bullet. She was soft, almost sensitive, and at the same time the toughest person he’d ever met. For a moment, he violently wanted to take her with him to Japan; to Nepal; to  _ anywhere _ .

“Figured you’re going to want to keep that on at the airport,” she said, “so I thought I might give you your goodbye kiss now.” 

It stabbed him in a dozen different ways. Zenyatta’s bell-like voice sang advice at him.  _ It can feel cathartic at first to throw something imperfect away and start again, but this is not the path to true happiness. Accept what you can’t change, and with it in your heart, stop looking back. Walk forward.  _ “I don’t-” Genji began. 

Tracer’s eyebrows lifted. 

_It’s been two days,_ Genji told himself, _Calm yourself._ He forced a smile, kissed her cheek, replaced his visor. “I have to get my things from the other room. I will call a cab.”

Tracer didn't smile back.

They separated, and Genji went across the hall to his room. He replaced his armor perfunctorily, then balled his tracksuit - the only clothing he had - into his travel bag along with his few grooming and maintenance tools. Last and most important, he strapped on his wakizashi and the  _ Ryu-Ichimonji.  _ He left the room, taking the key Mercy had left for him. 

It was a few more minutes before Tracer exited her own room, fussing with her hair. She had an oversized letterman jacket on over her chronal accelerator, and a pair of thigh-length shorts over shredded black leggings. Her skinny legs terminated in oversized sneakers, and her shirt showed off her belly button. He realized too late he was staring. Tracer grinned, lowering her aviators and waggling her eyebrows at him.

Genji laughed. What was it about her that made him act like a schoolboy? New and nostalgic all at once. He snaked his mechanical arm around her waist and relished touching the soft skin. She fluctuated in and out of his reach the whole way down to the lobby, walking ahead, then slowing her steps until he caught up, then getting impatient with his pace and outstripping him again. 

Genji checked out in the lobby, then they went outside to the pickup to wait for the cab. Tracer dozed against his shoulder until it arrived. 

When the yellow, driverless vehicle pulled up they hopped inside, then cuddled up together in the back seat. Genji, half-awake, watched the news on the TV that was mounted on the back of the driver’s seat. It took his tired brain a moment to realize what the Atlas reporter had said.

“An omnic attack?” Tracer spoke his thoughts aloud. She clutched his arm.

“In Russia,” Genji confirmed.

“Ange is there,” she whispered. 

Genji thought about Zenyatta, alone on the plane yesterday; about his failure to connect with him earlier. “I’m sure she will be alright,” he said.

The news show cut to a discussion panel, exploring the implications of this attack. 

A woman with long, sleek brown hair was acting as the moderator. “Can we confirm now,” she said, “that we have a second Omnic crisis on our hands?” 

“Well, this is precisely how the first one started, isn't it? An attack in Russia.” The man had a distinct British accent. When the camera cut in close, Genji recognized him. Under his name was the title: “Omnic Expert.” 

“Lovings,” Tracer spat, her voice thick with disgust.

“I wish I could say I was surprised,” Lovings told the moderator, “but you see, Omnics, for all the Shambali’s proclamations, are not actually learning creatures. They aggregate data. That data they can be used to improve upon their ability to perform a task, of course, but in the end, they are not inherently moral. That's the nature of the InRev.”

“And, Doctor, for our viewers, what is the InRev?”

Lovings smiled, tight-lipped and smug. “The  Independent Revisionary Intelligence System is the AI that Omnics claim gives them consciousness and free will, but it's actually the God program that caused the first Omnic Crisis.”

Genji scowled behind his mask. That wasn't quite correct. The InRev had propagated and started the Omnic Crisis, that was true, but the protocol that had controlled the Omnics and made them wage the war had long been stripped out of the code. Beyond that, by the very nature of the program, it had been hacked, updated, and modified a thousand times over since then. It was hardly recognizable as the same system anymore.

Lovings went on. “Omnics cannot conceive of, nor learn things like kindness or mercy. They can become smarter, but they will forever be stuck in the same cycle of moral reasoning. That reasoning lead to the first Omnic war and, I’m sorry say, the cycle has merely come ‘round again.”

Tracer kicked the seat in front of her. “Bloody tosser! He’ll say any vile thing to get on the tele.”

Genji felt the same anger, taking a long breath into his lung. “He knows nothing about the Shambali. One of their key tenants is revision and evolution.” He thought of his master’s favorite maxim:  _ hearts change _ . Zenyatta had told him that he’d learned it from Mondatta himself.

The panel shouted and argued on for most of the cab ride. Genji had heard every barb before, but they still hurt. Some were more subtle than others - he couldn't help but notice that even the people trying to argue in favor of Omnics were all human. Still, when they flashed the death count on the bottom of the screen, Genji shuddered, and he felt Tracer go a little stiff against his side. 

“So many...overnight,” she whispered.

Genji paused. “Master Zenyatta told me that Omnics are only beginning to understand death. As C said - they were not built to be individuals. Death and killing is as removing a drop of water from the ocean. I believe Mondatta’s assassination may have opened many Omnic eyes to what a single life can mean. It is ironic that his death has sparked this violence.”

He'd meant it as defense of some kind, but the way she shuddered against his side told him it hadn't worked. Zenyatta had even had an infuriatingly difficult time understanding Genji’s anger about Hanzo. Killing an insubordinate seemed logical to his master. Only when Genji had compared it to one of the shambali monks betraying their bond, did Zenyatta begin to understand.

On the screen, they cut away from the panel to the stocky reporter again. He was reporting the new, higher death toll.

“Someone should be doing something,” Tracer said. Some barbs were more subtle than others.

“What should be done?” Genji asked, a little sharp.

Tracer must have picked up on it, because her tone was annoyed and aggressive. “I don't know, but  _ something _ !”

Genji didn't answer, because he was sure they were both silently thinking the same thing:  _ Jack would know. _

Tracer clutched Genji tighter as they pulled up to the departure gate at JFK. The departures building was a modern-style mesa of glass windows and crossed steel, with the road, cars, and sidewalk coiled around it. Their cab slid in line with a dozen identical vehicles, crawling forward towards the small strip of pavement assigned to Genji’s airline. Even this early in the morning, it was a crowd of cars muscling in and out of the drop-off. 

Tracer uncoupled from him when the cab stopped, climbing out opposite door and meeting back up with him at the curb. She grabbed both his hands and stood close.

Genji could feel eyes on him - he still couldn't get used to being away from Nepal. Tracer either didn't notice or didn't care. “Text me when you land,” she requested. 

Genji nodded. He knew he had to let go of her hands, had to turn and walk away. Instead, he looked down at her freckles, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles.

“Genj,” she began in a whisper, “If you do kill Hanzo, what happens after?”

Genji looked down at the pavement and thought of his memory-dream. “I do not know.”

Her grip on his hands tightened. “Do you remember, when we were in the hoverjet going to Hanamura, you told me about one of the shops we flew over? The blade shop.”

He did remember. He knew where this was going.

“You told me he only makes blades for ceremonies, and after the ceremony’s done there’s no use for ‘em.”

“What are you trying to say, Lena?”

Tracer stuck her bottom lip out. “That it’s a stupid store, that’s what! I mean who makes a good sword just to do one thing and then be tossed out, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”

It surprised him, and he laughed. Without thinking, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly. Her chronal accelerator clunked against his chestplate. 

“Don’t do it,” she whispered, and Genji wasn’t entirely sure she meant taking revenge on Hanzo this time. She wouldn’t let go of him. It was reassuring in a way, as if she would hold him here until the flight was gone and he wouldn’t have to face his brother. Years ago, back in the time his memory-dream had been from, he would never have wished for that. He had hungered to face Hanzo and put an end to this story. But was that still what he wanted now?

Tracer released him, and planted a little kiss on his visor where his cheek would be. Hidden, he smiled. 

“Goodbye, Lena,” he whispered. He held on to her hand, then hooked his pinky finger in hers, then let her go. He refused to look back at her as he moved through the double doors into the terminal. 

It was a long, high-ceilinged hallway knotched with check-in desks on one side and broad glass windows on the other. Genji found the line for his airline and waited behind a haggard couple and their three small children. One of the kids, a little girl with barrettes in her wiry, dark pigtails, ducked under the straps of the line and raced out across the terminal. Her light-up sneaker stuck on the linoleum, causing her to take a nasty-looking dive. She sat up, bewildered a moment, then began to wail. Her father jogged in and scooped her up in his arms, cooing as he carried her back. Once in the line again, she stared at Genji over her father’s shoulder. Big, glassy eyes and unabashed curiosity.

He got to the front of the line and walked to the counter. The family were still at his left, juggling their luggage and children. When the agent asked if Genji had anything to check, he unstrapped his katana and wakazashi and laid them on the counter. “Whoa, dude,” the agent said, and reached for  _ Ryu-Ichimonji _ .

“Don’t,” Genji warned in English. The agent straightened, then tagged both the weapons and made him fill out a form. The agent told him - Genji wondered if was retribution for being sharp with him - that the two swords had to be checked separately. Genji shrugged off the fees and sent them off on the conveyer belt. 

“Not again,” groaned a voice on Genji’s left. He turned and saw that in the shuffle of luggage, the little girl had escaped her parent’s grasp and ran off again. Genji watched as she tottered to the big, wide windows that gave a view of the drop-off lanes. Genji peered at the spot on the curb where the cab had dropped him off. 

Tracer was gone. 

The little girl narrowly dodged her father’s grasping arms, racing away from him at top speed, laughing. 

_ Elastic _ . It hurt to know Tracer would be just fine without him, but he was glad. She was always racing forwards, while Genji was still trudging through his past like a bog. She was better off without him. He took his ticket from the agent, then headed towards the gates. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop: Japan! Lots of incoming Shimada family drama incoming! See you guys next week~


	10. Sweets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! New chapter. Prep for Shimada drama.  
> As always, I will be streaming after posting this: https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher 9PM EST-11PM EST. Short this week because I just agreed to hack together a cosplay for Dragon*Con next week, d'oh! Next thursday is the night before the con - fingers crossed everything comes together fast and easy, but if not I might end up skipping next week's update for my own sanity.  
> Another huge thanks to Doc who went to two different shops searching for a suitable Japanese mint candy for the beginning bit - we finally settled on it being imported from elsewhere. Mint chocolate/sweets, turns out, are not a thing in Japan. He also helped me a bunch with naming the denizens of Hanamura and the other members of the Shimada clan, especially Aunt Kana and Papa Shimada. Big ups!  
> Same for my new beta reader and writing buddy milfordb, who reminded me to take me time. I'm always rushing to get to the next part!  
> Ditto for Chiptooth, who convinced me we needed a little more doubt on Genji's part about whether he still wanted to kill Hanzo or not. I think this chapter is much better for this scene in particular.  
> Lastly, thanks as always to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, and comments, I love you all <3 I never expected so many wonderful people to like my fic for this teeny tiny ship, and I've met a lot of great folks as a result. On that note, if anybody is interested in joining the Deja-Ryu Discord channel, drop a comment and I'll post a link.

_ “You should not eat candy right before kendo with Father.”  _

_ Genji and Hanzo walked toward Shimada castle through an alleyway in Hanamura. Genji clutched a white paper bag, full of a variety of sweets, with both hands. “Why?” Genji’s mouth was gummy with the daifuku he’d stuffed in his mouth a second before asking the question. _

_ “Kendo is serious,” Hanzo told him. “Sweets are for children. Father may not train you if he does not think you are taking it seriously.” The pair emerged from the small alley between Hanamura’s antique buildings and rounded onto the wider road that cut between the gates to Shimada castle and the back of the ramen shop. _

_ “I don’t care. I’m going to eat sweets even when I’m a grown up! And  _ you _ got candy, too, Hanzo, and you’re turning eleven in a few weeks.” Genji grinned at his brother, licking the sticky mochi off his teeth. _

_ “Three pieces. Not a whole bag.”  _

_ “Yeah, of weird import candy,” Genji teased. “Who puts mint in sweets? Americans are so dumb!” _

_ His brother didn’t answer, only looked forward and lifted his chin. Hanzo’s hands were hidden in his sleeves, and he walked with his shoulders back in perfect posture. When standing next to Hanzo, Genji always felt like he was made of rubber. _

_ The brothers passed through the open gates to Shimada Castle, under the gaze of the tattooed enforcers. Of the four, Genji recognized Shige and Yasuo. With her arms folded, Shige’s hand was at Genji’s eye-level. He gawked at her stubbed pinky finger as they passed by. Hanzo looked straight ahead, placid and unmoving as a mountain. _

_ They passed the zen garden, through the second gate, then into the courtyard. The gazebo was in the center, and the buildings of Shimada castle made a halo around it, enclosing the courtyard. Across from the second gate was the main entrance to the castle: a broad, open doorway that lead into the main hall dojo. None but the immediate Shimada descendants were permitted to train there.  _

_ Genji caught the scent of pipe smoke. He followed his nose up. There was an open, two-story walkway on the right side of the courtyard, with traditional steepled roofs and balustrades. On the second floor, Genji spied the  _ Orochi _ \- he and Hanzo’s aunt, Kanata.  _

_ Kana’s dark head nearly touched the ceiling of the walkway, and her meaty gut and second chin swelled as she sucked in smoke from a pipe. A near-empty bottle of sake hung from her fat, ringed fist. Kana’s red dress shirt was unbuttoned down to her sternum, showing a hint of her moss-colored, full-body tattoo. Genji remembered the time at the family onsen when he’d first seen the tattoo fully. It was of the  _ Yamata no Orochi _. Eight terrible heads and lashing tails wrapped around Kana’s thick limbs and bulging gut. Genji had seen plenty of tattoos growing up in a  _ Yakuza _ family, but Aunt Kana’s  _ Orochi _ had frightened him. _

_ “Keep up.” Hanzo’s voice startled him. Genji turned his gaze from the  _ Orochi _ towards the direction the voice came from. Hanzo was waiting for him in the doorway to the main hall. Genji shot one more look up at Aunt Kana, then froze. The  _ Orochi _ was staring right at him. Her lips peeled back to show a white and gold grin. Genji clutched his paper bag to his chest and ran to catch up to Hanzo. In a fleeting moment, Genji saw his brother look up at their aunt as well. Hanzo’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded to her. She nodded back, still grinning. He put an arm around Genji, gently pressing him to go inside. _

_ Shimada castle’s main hall was huge and open, two floors tall. The right side lead out to the walkway and Aunt Kana; the left to a balcony that looked out over the Shimada grounds; straight ahead, a massive mural of two knotted dragons. On either side of the mural were two hallways that lead into the rest of the castle. Directly beneath it was a tall hanging scroll, and beneath that, their father. _

_ Shimada Ryõma was seated cross-legged, naked to the waist, Hanzo and Genji’s kendo sticks laid neatly at either side of him. Genji’s father was not nearly as tall or wide as Aunt Kana, but no less intimidating. He had a dragon tattoo, the color of water. Its snakelike body wormed through crashing waves, from his neck down to his wrist. Ryõma leveled his cool, sharp eyes at his sons. Hanzo glided forward like a kite and knelt, bowing. Genji followed, dropping to his knees in a comparatively clumsy way, bowing as well. Their father gestured silently at the kendo sticks. When he got up to retrieve his, Genji realized he still had the bag of candy in his hands.  _

_ The mood in the room shifted. Genji could feel the change acutely when it meant the difference between love and harm, as it so often did with his father. The second he saw his father’s eye flit to the bag, it was as if the sun had just been covered by clouds. Genji put the paper bag behind his back. _

_ Without a word, Ryõma picked up Genji’s kendo stick, stood, then crossed the space between them. Genji was already apologizing, but his father only held out his thin-fingered, sinewy hand. Shrugging into his shoulders, Genji handed the crumpled bag up to him. Ryõma looked inside, then peered at Genji from under his brows.  _

_ Genji looked to Hanzo. Hanzo kept his face straight ahead but  looked at him sidelong, then looked down at the floor.  _ He feels it too,  _ Genji thought, an instant before it happened. The kendo stick thudded against his shoulders, slamming the air out of his lungs and knocking his chest onto the floor. A stinging sensation exploded from the impact point out across his back.  _

_ “Don't cry,” Ryõma told him, “Men don't cry. Men don't eat sweets either.” He dropped the paper bag to the ground and crushed it under his bare foot. _

_ Genji clutched his fists tight, forehead against the dojo’s smooth, bamboo floor, trying to hold back the tears. Slow, he tilted his head. At this angle his arms still hid his face from Ryõma, but Genji could see Hanzo. _

_ Hanzo was looking back at him at the same angle. No words, just an expression Genji could read like a big, red street sign:  _ I know that pain. _ Hanzo had been through this too. That gave Genji heart, somehow. He swallowed the tears back, took a breath, sat up. _

_ “Yes, father,” Genji said. His voice croaked, his eyes were wet, but he wasn't crying. Ryõma looked down his nose at Genji, then to Hanzo. Genji followed his father's gaze. Hanzo was sitting seiza, a picture of perfect obedience. _

_ Ryõma nodded once, then handed Genji his kendo stick, handle first, and smiled down at him bright as the sun. The clouds were gone. The storm was over.  _

_ \--- _

_ By the time the training hour was up, Genji was huffing, face pink and muscles burning. Hanzo had beat him like always, and like always he’d made it look effortless. Even now, while Genji leaned forward on his knees, face slick with sweat, Hanzo stood with his shoulders back and chin up, not a hint of exhaustion or a strand of hair out of place.  _

_ Ryõma stood loose, with his weight on one foot, head tilted, looking between them. Hanzo shot Genji a look. Genji sucked in a breath and stood up straight. He and his brother bowed to their father in unison. Ryõma nodded sharply and spoke to them in a language Genji didn’t understand - a tongue with purring r’s and s’s like steam - then tugged on a yukata and left the dojo.  _

_ Genji wandered out onto the balcony and sat down, gingerly touching his shoulder. It still stung, and there was sure to be a mean bruise there tomorrow. Hanzo sat down next to him. _

_ “I told you,” Hanzo scolded. _

_ “Mmhm.” Genji shrugged in his shoulders, sulking and in pain. In the edge of his vision, Genji spied Hanzo’s open hand beside his knee. He looked down at it: it held Hanzo’s three weird, imported mint candies. _

_ “Here.” _

_ “But...those are yours,” Genji said, bewildered. _

_ “Right now, you need them more than I do.” _

_ Genji plucked the strange candy from his brother’s open palm and unwrapped one, stuffing it into his mouth. The flavor of the mint was harsh, but underneath that, Genji could taste sweetness. _

 

Genji woke from the dream to the flight attendant speaking Japanese. He sighed awake, feeling a stiffness in his still-human shoulder. A few of his systems pinged at the back of his brain asking for minor maintenance. He looked out the window. From up here, Tokyo at night was a tightly-packed circuitboard of shining buildings and tightly-packed roadways. Nostalgia rushed into him. He hadn’t been to Japan since Overwatch had attacked Shimada castle.

This felt different. As the plane descended, Japan’s capital reached up for him. 

The plane landed. Genji waited until the rows ahead of him had left their seats, then grabbed his bag and deplaned. 

There was a mass of people in the airport. Everyone was Japanese. No signs had to be translated into clumsy katakana by his visor system. To say he felt comfortable here wasn’t quite right, but it was deeply familiar. Genji went through customs which involved the average amount of pain and suspicion, then followed the signs to baggage claim.

He got there and plucked  _ Ryu-Ichimonji _ from the belt, but his wakizashi must have somehow gotten separated from it. He waited until his flight had scrolled off the baggage belt’s screen, but still his short-sword was not there. He went to the lost baggage office.

The woman behind the counter was around his age. She looked up when he walked in and, without hesitation, smiled at him with her whole face. “How may I help you?” she asked. Her voice was croaky but sweet, her real voice, not a tinny recreation spat out by his translator. Genji smiled at her from behind his mask.

“One of my swords never came out of the checked baggage for my flight.”

The women was still smiling when she said, “I’m so sorry about that! Could you transmit your flight information to my compu- oh! You have already. Thank you! Please give me a moment.”

The woman’s fingers tapped furiously on the computer’s old, clacky keyboard. As he waited, she hummed a song Genji wasn’t familiar with. “How was your flight otherwise?”

The question almost startled him. Most people pointedly did not make smalltalk with him.

“I slept.”

“That’s always nice on a long flight,” she giggled. “But then, please excuse me if I am wrong, but most Omnics can go to sleep manually, is that right?”

Genji tiled his head. “Ah, yes, for Omnics that is true, but I am a cyborg, not an Omnic.”

The woman stopped typing long enough to put her fingers over her opened mouth. “Oh! I’m so sorry, my mistake.”

Genji chuckled. “Do not worry. I look like one, don’t I?”

The woman simpered at him and went back to typing. “A bit. Is that rude to say?”

“Not at all,” Genji chuckled.  _ In some ways I am more omnic than man.  _ Genji thought about the news segment he and Tracer had watched on the cab ride to the airport. He had gotten short with her when she suggested something be done about what was happening in Russia. Why had it bothered him? With a focused thought, he wrote and sent Tracer a short message telling her he’d made it to Japan. Already he missed her. 

“Ah, here we are,” the woman said. Her voice darkened. “Oh no… I’m so sorry, but it looks like there was a mix-up when you made your connection. Your sword is still in Los Angeles.”

Genji took a moment to process that. His wakizashi was not here. Hanzo was going to be in Hanamura  _ tonight _ . He didn’t know if he would fight his brother, but if he did, he would need  _ both  _ his swords. His computer pinged with a text notification, but he didn’t open it. “How do I get it here?” he asked.

“Let me look for the next flight we can put it on. Where are you staying?”

Another notification. “Shizuoka prefecture, near Fujinomiya.” he said. 

The woman thinned her lips. “That’s far.”

“Mm.” His text messages pinged again, then once more.

She tapped the keyboard again. From her disconsolate expression, Genji knew it couldn’t be good. “The next flight is in two hours, but it won’t get here until tomorrow morning. If you provide the address of your hotel, we can have it delivered there by that afternoon.”

_ Without that blade, I cannot fight! _ Genji’s anger came and went in less than a minute. It was unfortunate, but even if they plane left this instant it wouldn’t get his wakizashi to him in time. “One moment,” he said, then used his internal computer to book a room in the old resort hotel near Hanamura. The pictures on the website flashed across his visor and clutched at his chest. As his systems entered his financials into the website, Genji checked his messages.

 

**Oxton**

 

> 16:57
> 
> I landed in Japan.

 

> 14:57
> 
> Yay!!
> 
>  
> 
> 14:57
> 
> How was ur flight?? 
> 
>  
> 
> 14:58
> 
> How is japan?? Ive on;y evr been on missions :(((((
> 
>  
> 
> 14:58
> 
> Is it weird to b back home???

 

Genji wasn’t sure how to answer. Instead, he finished reserving his room, then transmitted the address to the woman’s computer. It beeped a notification. The woman seemed almost startled.

“Ah. Yes, thank you." Her speech was halting.

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” she drawled. “I’m very sorry. I don’t want to be rude, but, if you are not an Omnic, how did you do that?”

_ Ah. _ “I have a computer connected to my brain.” He wasn’t sure how else to say it.

A pause, then, “oh.”

He shifted, then nodded to her. “Thank you for your help.”

“A-ah, of course! I’m very sorry,” she called after him.

“Mm,” he answered over his shoulder and left to find the Narita Express station. 

 

\---

 

He tried again to call Zenyatta while he was on the train, and again, received no answer. He opened Tracer’s messages four or five separate times, and closed them again without responding. He wanted to meditate, calm his mind and reflect on the sudden rush of events over the past two weeks, but he couldn’t focus on the train. There were too many people, too much noise, too much scenery flying by. Everything,  _ everything _ was happening too  _ fast _ . 

He had to face Hanzo tonight or wait another year. If Hanzo wanted a fight, without his wakizashi Genji would just get killed all over again.  _ That would be ironic. _ Genji imagined Hanzo pulling off the visor; imagined, exactly, the face his brother would make when he saw who he had killed. Genji could picture the way Hanzo’s body would go stiff, the way his lips would part just a little. How his breath would sound leaving his lungs.

It was strange. Genji had, in an indulgent way, imagined a thousand times how Hanzo would look defeated. He’d attacked the scenario from every angle, like a film director; memorized what he would say to his brother just before running him through. He had imagined Hanzo’s shocked expression, his mournful apology, the strangled sound in Hanzo’s throat as Genji slid  _ Ryu-Ichimonji _ out of him. Never before, though, had Genji imagined how Hanzo would look in victory. Amidst the blinding wrath of the Dragons, Genji hadn’t seen Hanzo’s face at the end of their duel ten years ago. At the thought of Hanzo slaying him again, Genji should have felt anger or even satisfied, but when he really thought about how Hanzo would react, he felt…

_ Bitterness and sorrow. _ For a moment, Genji swore he could taste mint and sugar in his mouth.

For a decade, killing Hanzo had been more than a goal or mantra; it had been Genji’s reason for being. Tracer’s voice sang in his recorded memory:  _ don’t do it. _ He thought of her soft hand in his, her chronal accelerator clunking into his metal chest, her skinny legs and wild hair and freckles and wet eyes as she smiled; of her kiss goodbye. 

_ I don’t want to leave. _ The Shambali was going to get crucified for what was happening in Russia. He wanted to be there for Master Zenyatta and the monks who had accepted him. He wanted to go to  _ Club Cerisier  _ with Keiko and laugh at her rude jokes. He even wanted to see Hanzo’s face when he told him he was still alive. Keiko would think it was funny. 

He wanted to see Tracer again. Again, and again, and  _ again _ . It was short and blurry, but for the first time in ten years, Genji saw a future for himself. He  _ wanted _ it. It was such a new feeling, Genji didn’t know how to process it. Without thought or will, before he even realized he was doing it, his systems called Zenyatta again. 

No answer.

Genji reached behind him and found again that his wakizashi was not there. Hanzo’s face, eyes going wide, mouth parting. The sound he would make when he pulled the visor off and saw Genji’s face underneath. The harsh flavor of mint, with a taste of sweetness underneath. 

“Next stop, Hanamura Station.” A woman’s recorded, dulcet voice announced it over the train’s tinny speakers. Genji looked out the window.

Hanamura was situated on a hill, raised up above the rest of the city. The first thing Genji recognized was the towering main house of Shimada castle, jutting above the compound’s walls like a spear. In a threaded line-of-sight view, he spied the giant Rikimaru murloc. He saw the sign for 8-bit Hero. If he'd thought it was nostalgic being back in Japan again, nothing could have prepared him for seeing his old neighborhood rushing towards him at the train’s sixty kilometers per hour. 

_ A future, _ Genji thought. In a deep, almost unconscious part of him, he’d always known that if he killed Hanzo, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Now he wondered how he’d live with himself if he didn’t. After a diffident pause, Genji opened up Tracer’s messages again. 

 

**Oxton**

 

> 14:58
> 
> Is it weird to b back home???

 

> 18:40
> 
> Ya
> 
>  
> 
> 18:44
> 
> I wish you were here.

 

\--

 

It was a short walk from the train station to the heart of Hanamura. Shopkeepers took down Children’s day decorations. One by one, each store’s electric sign flickered on. The scent of cherry blossoms wereas familiar and inescapable, and the petals stuck to the bottom of his feet. Genji spied some graffiti on the back of the ramen shop and thought of dozens of days and nights spent with Keiko causing similar trouble. 

High as any of Hanamura’s buildings were the looming gates of Shimada castle. The two ouroboros dragons carved out on the ancient gate sent a shiver up Genji’s half-artificial spine. Both doors were blissfully shut. He started to reach behind him and touch his wakizashi, then stopped himself. Keiko had told him that Hanzo always showed up at night, after all the shops had closed.  _ If he wants to fight… _ Genji shivered again.

As he walked past its open doorways, Genji peeked into Rikimaru and saw the owner’s daughter handing off bowls to a few customers at the counter. He was surprised at how much older she looked. She caught him staring and her eyes went big at the sight of the cyborg. He ducked away. 

Genji passed the arcade as well. One half was teenagers playing the cabinets and UFO catchers. The other half was older people with cigarettes feeding change into the pachinko machines. He could hear the arcade’s familiar clangor ringing through the glass doors. He saw the owner behind the counter, furiously selling cards and drinks. Had she shrunk, somehow? His hand touched the handle of the door, then he pulled back and walked on. 

After circling the block, dizzy with nostalgia, Genji wandered into the  dagashiya . A woman's pleasant, recorded voice welcomed him inside. He was assaulted on all sides by boxes and shelves of penny candies, toys, and junk food. He used to love this place as a kid. It felt so much  _ smaller  _ than he remembered it being. 

Genji stopped at the small case of mint candies and ran his mechanical fingers over their cellophane wrappings. He hesitated, then plucked out three of them. When he walked up and deposited the candies on the counter, the clerk openly gawked at him. He rang Genji up without a word, then jumped when the shop’s POS chirped out that Genji had transferred the money to him wirelessly. Bewildered, the clerk put the three candies in a white paper bag. Genji looked at the clerk’s nametag.

“Taka?” Genji said without thinking. Takashi was the  dagashiya owner’s son. He was ten the last time Genji had seen him - now, he was a grown man. 

“Y-yes?” Takashi said as he leaned back, hands clutching the counter. 

Genji stared back at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing.” He took the paper bag, then left.

After a stop at the hotel to check in, drop off his bag, shower and do some basic system maintenance, Genji came back to the square. He passed  _ Club  _ _ Cerisier _ , the french words written out in pink, neon, roman letters.  Genji remembered a dozen wild nights spent there with Keiko. Bass thundered out from the open door where bouncers were admitting young people one at a time. In contrast to  _ Club Cerisier’s _ modern music and architecture, on the second floor of the building next door was a little, unassuming shop with a painted, wooden sign that simply said: _ Blades. _

Hanamura was stacked twofold with shops. Some of the bigger businesses, like the Club or Rikimaru Ramen, controlled the whole building, but most had a different shop on each floor. Stairs lead up to a walkway that gave patrons access to shops on the second floor. Genji reached behind him and found his wakizashi missing again. After a breath, he climbed the stairs and circled the walkway to the blade shop.

It was a relief to find the same old man, Yashiro, behind the counter. Unlike the woman from the arcade, who had shrivelled since Genji last saw her, Yashiro seemed completely unchanged by the passage of time. He sat on a stool, and didn't greet Genji when he came in. In fact, the old man looked like he was asleep. Dozens of swords were on display in the cramped one-room store, either in a lit case or on traditional stands. Each one had a tiny card that read “do not touch.”

In a moment of impishness, Genji looked from the old man to a set of swords in red saya, laid out traditionally on a display stand. Keeping his eyes on Yashiro, Genji used the extent of his ninja skills to stealthily reach for the katana on the rack. The instant his mechanical fingers closed around the saya, the old man barked “don’t touch!”  

Genji jumped, then laughed and apologized. Yashiro glared at him from under his brows the exact same way he used to when Genji was young. It was oddly comforting. 

“We are about to close,” Yashiro said. 

Genji put up his hands. “Ah, sorry! I did not know.” 

Yashiro looked him up and down. “Do you need a sword for a ceremony?” he asked in an annoyed tone.

Genji looked down at the three blades - specifically, the wakizashi in the middle. “Sort of.”

The old man’s posture changed and he tilted his head. He drawled out a “yes?” 

“Something functional and traditional,” Genji said, then added, “and sharp.”

Yashiro stared Genji down for long seconds. He wondered if the old man didn’t want to sell a usable weapon to what appeared to most people as an Omnic. Eventually, though, old Yashiro got up off his stool and asked him what length he wanted. Genji told him. The old man grunted and showed Genji a few serviceable wakizashi. Genji hummed at them with mild interest. None were as good as the one he’d lost in his flight over. Genji thought Yashiro would be annoyed at his indecisiveness, but the old man seemed to watch him with more and more interest the more blades Genji rejected.

_ I hated that story.  _ Genji was examining the sharp edge of one of the blades when Tracer’s words bubbled up in his brain. With them came a too-real memory of sitting next to her in the cockpit of the hoverjet, looking down at this shop from above. “What happens to the blades after the ceremony?” Tracer’s question from the memory, repeated out loud.

Yashiro didn’t answer right away, too busy carefully laying one of the rejected swords into the indented velvet of a display case. 

“Some people use them in repeating rituals. Same thing every year, kept in storage otherwise. Other times they’re kept on display, just not used again.” 

Genji stared at sword in his hand. “It seems a shame for something so well-made to collect dust in a box or on a shelf,” he said.

Yashiro grunted. “Not well-made enough for metal-man,” he said, with good humor. The old man tottered through hanging cloth to the shop’s back room. “Most of the time,” Yashiro called from the back, “After the ceremony, people just throw them away.”

Genji’s eyes swept across the shop’s dozens of blades, imagining them all piled up with the trash. Then, he looked down at his left arm. It had long since been repaired, but sometimes Genji thought he felt an ache or stiffness in it from the extended time he hadn’t bothered to repair it. He remembered that, beyond having no will to get it fixed, seeing it hanging loose from his shoulder had made what happened to him feel more real. “Does that bother you,” he called to Yashiro as he tried to push off unwelcome comparisons to Dr. Ziegler.

“It would,” Yashiro said, “if I sold those people my best swords.”

Genji straightened. The blades he’d looked at were by no means of poor quality. Beyond ceremonial blades, Yashiro made all the swords for the Shimada enforcers, and Genji was sure they were sold out of the front of the shop like everything else.

Yashiro finally emerged from the back room, holding a fine black box with both hands. “Here. I have just the thing for you, metal-man.” Genji turned, curious, as the old man laid the box reverently on the counter. With a theatrical sweep of his liverspotted arm, Yashiro pulled off the lid.

Whatever Genji had expected this wakizashi to look like, this wasn’t it. The tsuka was made from a smooth resin and perforated, faux-leather vinyl rather than traditional wood and ray skin. The lines were smooth and modern, and it was held together by rivets and screws instead of wooden pins. The blade was a classic shape, but the metal looked almost mirrored, reflecting the green light from Genji’s visor - definitely not steel. The whole thing was absolutely blasphemous, yet unquestionably beautiful. 

“This isn't traditional,” Genji said.

“Do you care?” Yashiro asked bluntly. 

Genji smirked under his mask. Admiring it again, he reached for it, then stopped himself. “May I?”

Yashiro grinned from ear to ear, and nodded.

Genji lifted the blade out of the case and turned it. The balance was perfect. He could see the tang at the blade’s hilt. The grip felt satisfying in his hand. Genji took stance and held it deflect position, then coiled like a snake and rushed forward, taking a slash. He felt like he was cutting through the air itself. The hanging banners in the shop swayed from his movement. Genji sighed and stood back up, staring at the sword in his hand.

“You like it, I think,” Yashiro said.

“Mm.” Genji more than liked it. That cut had made him feel almost invincible. An intrusive thought, mean and familiar:  _ I can kill Hanzo with this. _ A long silence yawned between them as Genji thought of this blade used only once, then tossed in a dumpster with piles of trash.

“There is one other thing my customers do with the blades they buy from me,” Yashiro said. 

It startled Genji, and he looked up at the old man. 

Yashiro pushed back the sleeves of his yukata and lifted his chin. “They say fuck tradition, and use the blade for whatever they want.”

The profanity startled Genji - it was one thing to hear it from westerners or Yakuza, but quite another for a shopkeeper say it to a customer. 

Yashiro went on, gesturing around the shop and its dozens of swords. “I make these because it keeps me in business to sell to idiots who like throwing swords away. But a truly fine weapon should never be tossed out or locked in a box or put on a shelf. A good blade, whatever it was first made for, will always have a place in the world.”

Genji stared at Yashiro in stunned silence for a moment, and would have done so for longer if not for a sudden, repetitive beeping exploding into his synthetic ear. Genji jumped at the alarming sound, then shook his head to focus as the message scrolled across his visor. His mechanical brain sourced the call: it was from southern Spain. A dozen familiar names ran across his visor, beneath a single central word in bold, capital letters:  **RECALL.**

“Ah!” The sound old Yashiro made was something between a yell and a growl. He shuffled out from behind the counter, past Genji, to look out the shop’s doorless entryway. “There he is. Just like every year.” Genji’s heart went into his throat. He walked up beside Yashiro and followed the old man’s gaze down to the empty Hanamura street. 

His hair was shorter, pulled up into spiky warrior’s tail by a familiar yellow scarf. He still wore traditional garb, because  _ of course _ he did, and one side of his torso was completely bare. Even from this height, Genji could see the indigo dragon worming down his arm.

“Hanzo,” Genji whispered. Storm Bow was strapped across his back. Keiko had said he’d eschewed his katana since…

Since. 

Genji watched Hanzo rush through the abandoned street, approach Shimada castle’s gates, and effortlessly scale up the side. A notification was blipping on his visor, asking if he wanted to contact Watchpoint: Gibraltar. With a rush of subconscious code, Genji dismissed the window, and turned back to the shop. 

“I will have it,” Genji said, marching to the counter. He took up the wakizashi’s saya, sheathed it, then connected his financials to the blade shop’s storefront system. As Genji strapped the short-sword to his back and headed for the exit, Yashiro grabbed him by the arm. Genji stopped and looked back at him.

“It  _ is  _ you.” When he said it, Yashiro, for the first time, sounded as old as he looked. 

There was no reason to lie, not now. “Yes.”

A thousand papery wrinkles exploded out from Yashiro’s hard frown. “You’re here for him.”

Cautious, Genji nodded.

“Good,” Yashiro growled. He released Genji’s arm. 

Genji took in a deep breath. Something silent passed between him and Yashiro. Genji was reminded of that day in the arcade: sitting at the Street Fighter machine, staring at his brother as the old woman handed of three times the protection money. Genji turned from the old shopkeep, walked out to the balcony, then chased Hanzo to the gates of Shimada castle.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For people reading the full Omnic Crisis story chronologically, the next chapter is [May I, Chapter One: Vaquero](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7991308/chapters/18289228). 
> 
> Dun dun dun! Two cinematics in one chapter! Will Genji kill Hanzo? Does he answer Overwatch's call?? Of course, we know the answers, but I hope the tension at least makes people ask the whys, whens, and hows of those events.  
> To everyone who really wanted Tracer to, one way or another, end up on the plane with him, so sorry! xD Like Genji, she has some of her own stuff to get through, especially with the RECALL now in effect!  
> Hopefully we'll have a chapter next week, but if not, we'll definitely be back on schedule the Thursday after! And if you happen to be at Dragon*Con and spy Shiro from Voltron stopping to take pictures of every Overwatch cosplayer they can find, feel free to come say hi (:


	11. Miss Oxton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Welcome back to Time Machine!  
> Hoooo, boy, this week was a rough one. Very sorry for missing last week and for the late update this week, but I have 16.k words worth of reason riiiight over here:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/7991308  
> I've started a new fic as a companion piece to this one! This story features McCree and Hanzo, and will have a lot of crossover to this story.  
> That's the good news. The bad news is, I'd prefer not to kill myself writing two chapters a week(like I did this week. Oof. It was rough, y'all), so this is how we're going to do this.  
> I will continue to update the series once a week, Thursdays, 9PM. However, that update will (generally) be one chapter of "Time Machine" one week, then a chapter of "May I" the next. That means this fic will update biweekly. So will "May I."  
> If you're really missing the updates, know that originally "May I" was going to be wrapped into Time Machine anyway - really, just read them each week like the fic is updating as usual. I split them up mostly for people who maybe like one pairing, but don't like the other. Me? I love both (:
> 
> I am still streaming tonight! Starting a little late, but hopefully two new chapters in a day make it worth it! https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher 
> 
> Thanks as always to my wonderful readers. You guys are the best, and I hope you like this new addition to the story. Thank you for bearing with me these past two rough weeks. Hope to see you on the stream!

Tracer’s feet were crossed at the ankle up on the console of the hoverjet. The pilot’s chair squeaked as she rocked it back and forth in an impatient rhythm. In the front of the jet, she watched wind whip snow up from Krasnoyarsk’s abandoned streets. Behind her, the cockpit’s door was open. With her foot, she turned the chair around, squealing, so she was facing the doorway. She braced her other foot on the cockpit’s open doorway, holding the chair opposite of its default angle. Through the doorway, she could see Winston in the hoverjet’s fuselage, engaged in a thorny discussion with Aleksandra Zaryanova, one of the leaders from the local RDF.

Zarya was _huge_ . Even next to Winston, her broad shoulders, bulging muscles, and massive particle cannon were intimidating. Zarya said she’d ripped the thing off the side of a tank which, Tracer had to admit, was _super_ badass. At first, Tracer had liked her immensely. Then the subject of Mondotta and Omnic rights came up, and any admiration she’d had for Zarya dissipated.

Now, Tracer sulked in the cockpit, refusing to even speak with the local hero. She felt a little bad for Winston, who stuttered through the woman’s terse and forceful conversation habits.

“The RDF extends its mightiest thanks for Overwatch’s aid against this omnic threat,” Zarya finished in what was, in Tracer’s opinion, a very ungracious tone. “We look forward to a future partnership.” Tracer thumbed through her phone, quietly mocking Zarya’s voice. Her finger hovered over the messenger icon and its zero notifications. She tapped it, then tapped again to open Genji’s messages.

 

**GREEN CYBORG NINJA DUDE**

5/5/76 20:55

GENJIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!

 

5/5/76 20:55

Where did u go??

 

5/5/76 21:20

OMFG!!

RU SEEING THIS???

GENJ!!!

DID U JUST GET THE RECALL???

 

5/5/76 21:34

I JUST TALKED TO WINSTON HE DID IT THE ABSOLUTE MADMAN!!

 

5/5/76 21:48

OMG GENJ EVERYBODY’S CALLING IN IM GONNA CRY

 

5/5/76 22:05

R U SEEING THIS?? Winston said u were on the list he saw u were in japan

 

5/5/76 22:14

Genji??

 

Tracer’s gaze flitted to today’s date: 5/8/76. Sighing, she closed her messages and looked up at Winston and Zarya again. The cockpit chair creaked as she leaned back and forth.

Zarya caught her eye and held it, unflinching. Slow, with a quirk of her scarred eyebrow, Zarya lifted her chiseled chin. It might have been a show of respect or a challenge. Tracer didn’t care which; she glowered, lifted her two forefingers in a “v” and stuck her tongue out between them. Winston caught the lewd gesture and shook his head at her. Zarya snorted and smirked, then shook hands with Winston and exited the hoverjet.

When Zarya was gone, Winston shot Tracer The Look, his fuzzy arms folded over his broad chest. She grinned. Winston sighed. “We are working for Overwatch in an _official_ capacity again, Lena.”

Tracer moved her foot off the doorway, and the spring-loaded chair spun itself back into place. “Yeah, and she was an _official_ twat.”

Winston drug his overlong ape’s palm down his face. “Lena, please. She gave up a title and a world record to come back and fight. You saw how Krasnoyarsk looked, even the parts the Omnics hadn’t broken through to yet. Do you really blame her?”

That shoved her hot annoyance into a cold shower. She _had_ seen Krasnoyarsk: the massive Svyatogor factories on the Yenisei riverwalk, the beat-up cars packed up on the bridge to pass through the EMP checkpoint, the boarded-up hovels sprayed with bullet holes and graffiti dedicated to fallen friends and family.

In the assault the newly-recalled Overwatch had come to defend against, the Omnics had destroyed the memorial from the first Omnic Crisis. During the fight, Tracer had taken shelter behind one of the marble pillars waiting for her chronal accelerator to regenerate its charge. Near her feet had been a chipped piece of concrete, carved with names of the dead. Why had the Omnium reactivated? Were these Omnics compelled by another god program, or were they _choosing_ to do this?

“Is she going to join Overwatch?” Tracer’s question came out sulky.

Winston knuckled into the cockpit. It seemed much smaller with his massive body tucked between her chair and Athena’s input console. His huge hand dwarfed her shoulder. He adjusted his glasses.

“I know you don’t like her, but we need new people.”

Tracer knew he was right but didn’t want to admit it, so she only crossed her arms, leaned back in her chair, and blew a raspberry at him. “Have any more of the oldies called back in?”

Winston looked at the hoverjet’s computer console at his opposite shoulder. After a moment he said “Jesse McCree.”

The pilot’s chair squealed as Tracer sat up. “He was Blackwatch.”

“Mm.”

Tracer opened her phone again, staring at the messenger icon. Still naked, no little “new message” badge.

Winston put voice to her thoughts. “Have you heard from Genji?”  

Tracer thumbed her phone screen off. “Nah, not since I saw him in New York, really,” she said through a tight smile. She hadn’t told Winston too much about what had happened after the UN summit, and he never read into things the way Angela did. Tracer was glad Mercy had been in the field most of the trip - the mere mention of Genji’s name would have brought on many a knowing smile and significant glance.

Winston grunted. “His opinion would be valuable.” The unspoken: Genji and McCree had been friends. He would be able to give some insight on whether the former Blackwatch member was a worthwhile ally or a dangerous liability.

“When’d McCree say he was reporting in?”

“In a few days.” Winston shrugged. “He said he had a job to take care of first. Not sure I want to know what kind.” He turned, his massive body catching the edge of Tracer’s chair and rotating it. She wasn’t sure he even noticed it from the way his blithely leaned over to the cockpit’s computer console, typing some commands to Athena.

“So what’s next?” Tracer’s foot, back up on the cockpit’s dash, bounced like a jackrabbit.

“Well, we stopped the attack here for now, but Krasnoyarsk’s citizens could use our help rebuilding and fortifying.”

Tracer groaned. “That sounds so _boring_.” She kicked off from the console. The chair squeaked as it spun in a circle, bumping rhythmically against Winston’s shoulder armor.

“Helping people isn’t boring.” Winston’s speech hiccuped each time the chair bumped his shoulder. “Besides, there isn’t anything more imperative right now.” With a grunt, Winston turned away from the console and grabbed the top of her chair, stopping it from spinning and turning it so she was facing him. He adjusted his glasses. “I need an hour to log the mission stats into Athena and get her working on this hard drive we pulled from the omnium’s computer. After that, I’ll contact the local government and find something you can help with. Okay?”

“An _hour_?” Tracer whined.

“It’s buried in layers of encryption and security protocols. You know how Omnic security is, no human error or hacker tricks. It’s going to take days to unlock the data. I need to get it started as soon as I can.”

Tracer sighed and blew her bangs out of her eyes. “Fiiiiiiine,” she drawled, hopping out of her chair. Scrolling back and forth through her apps, she left Winston in the cockpit.

The hoverjet’s fuselage was fat and long like a pill. A trio of secured seats were secured at two ends, catty-corner to one another. More relaxed seating was situated in the remaining corners, with a table and shelves scattered with bottles, books, and playing cards. The bright sun, reflected and enhanced by the snow, shot in through the triangle windows and vast, clear-plastic bay door. She stopped in the center, rocking on her heels next to the sitrep table. Her elbow stabbed into the holographic map of Siberia, momentarily, fracturing the image. She opened Genji’s text conversation again, scrolling up from the bottom to an earlier part of the conversation.

 

5/5/76 14:58

Is it weird to b back home???

 

5/5/76 18:40

Ya

 

5/5/76 18:44

I wish you were here.

 

She read it three times over. Raw as a nerve, as a cord of lightning snapping up from the earth, so close that thunder doesn’t wait, it just cracks in your ears and shakes you down to your bones. She _hated_ thunder. She hated that brief, honest line floating on her chat log like a dark cloud. She scrolled down and looked at his last message. “Maybe after I see Hanzo.” Sent May 5th, 1923 hours, and since then, nothing.

_I should have gone. I should be there. He’s going to see his brother for the first time in a decade and he’s all alone. Two graves, two graves, two graves..._

Tracer snarled and shook the gnawing alarm-clock thought out of her head, pressing the heels of her hands in her eyes. She closed the chat log with malice and opened her contacts, scrolling through. _New people. New people. Two graves. New people! New people..._ She paused at two names in her list: “RU-FI-OOOOOOH” and “G4m3r Grrl”.

“Oi, Winston?” Tracer raised her voice so he could hear her in the cockpit.

“Hmm?”

“You said we need new people, right?” Tracer thumbed together a group chat.

“Yes…” His voice was wary.

“I got some,” she said, shooting out a text.

The flutter of deft fingers across a keyboard. “Shouldn't we, y'know, vet them first?”

“Aw, come on, big guy, don't you trust my judgement?”

Winston leaned out into the doorway connecting the cockpit to the fuselage so he could shoot her a skeptical look. Tracer grinned at him hard as she could. He sighed, defeated. “We can bring them in for an _interview_.”

“Good ‘cause I al-ready asked,” she said, sing-song.

Winston sighed again, then leaned back to the computer so Tracer could only see his broad, bent shoulders. She tapped her heel and looked down at her phone screen. No response from either yet. She looked at the time.

 _Well that killed all of 3 minutes. I wonder if there’s any reports of our daring heroics up yet!_ She thumbed over to the Atlas news app and searched “russia overwatch”. The first headline had the most recent deathcount. An image loaded automatically. She wished it hadn’t. It was the Krasnoyarsk dam, crumbling, waves like massive flower petals blooming around the legs of the attacking Titan. A massive _Svyatogor_ stood in a wide, defensive stance, shin-deep in the released water, putting itself bodily between the Titan and the city of Krasnoyarsk, seen distantly in the background.

The 60m russian mecha reminded her of the hulking Zarya. Tracer had seen her put herself in front of turret fire to protect the denizens of the city a dozen times since they’d reported to Krasnoyarsk. She didn’t like what Zarya thought of Omnics, but Tracer would wager money that she was out in the city helping with fortifications right now.

“I’m heading out,” she called over her shoulder to Winston.

“Out? Where?” Winston leaned back from the keyboard so he could see her through the cockpit doorway. “I’m not done setting up the encryption.”

Tracer shrugged. “I dunno, thought I might go to a safe house, pass out blankets and stuff.”

Winston pursed his lips in way that made him look substantially more apelike than usual. “Doesn’t sound very exciting.”

“Nah. Helping people isn’t boring.”

Winston smiled in the knowing way she knew he would. After Overwatch fell, she’d had plenty of fun travelling the world and meeting new people, but the comfort of her best friend’s smile was something she didn’t realize she missed so much until now. She felt an unwanted welling up of tears in her eyes and ducked her head down to let her bangs fall in her eyes. She readied a goofy quip to break the serious mood, then stopped herself.

“Uhm,” she began, still keeping her head bowed, “Well, I’m… Winston, I’m real happy to be back, y’know? I’m glad we’re doing all this.” Her voice was thready. It was raw, naked, and she didn’t like it, at _all_. Winston wasn’t saying anything, and finally she coughed and spun around on one heel so her back was facing him. She dug her joke back up. “Well, a-ny-way, I’ll go get to it before I get another lecture from professor Win-ston.”

“H-hey, uh, Lena!”

Tracer was two steps from the hoverjet’s bay door. Taking a moment to wipe her eyes on the back of her glove, she turned around and put on a big grin. “Yeah, big guy?”

He smiled again, just the same way. “Thank you for saying that. What we’re doing is technically illegal and, well… I wonder all the time if we’re really doing the right thing.”

Tracer thought of a joke about making the new Overwatch uniforms orange jumpsuits, but she swallowed it. “We are.”

Maybe it was just her imagination, but Winston’s posture seemed to relax. With a nod, he told her to be safe, then turned back to the keyboard.

Tracer had the heel of her hand above the big, candy-red button that dropped open the hoverjet’s door when the universal speakers buzzed out a series of electronic purrs. Tracer leaned back to peer into the cockpit. Splashed across the screen: INCOMING CALL JESSE MCCREE. His ID number was hashed out. _Blackwatch._ Tracer saw Winston’s finger hover over the answer call button for 3 rings before pressing it. His old ID picture popped up on the screen, and his molasses voice crooned out through the hoverjet’s multiple speakers.

“Howdy.”

“H-hello, Jesse.” Winston adjusted his glasses.

“Winston, right?”

“Yes, we, we spoke when you called, earlier, I think it was Tuesday, the 6th. Was it Tuesday the 6th? I think it was.”

McCree chuckled like a shot of good bourbon: smooth, warm, brief. “Coulda been.”

“I guess it doesn’t really matter, haha.” Nervous. Even if she hadn’t known Winston as well as she did, Tracer would have known this conversation made him uncomfortable - more than the norm, at least.

“So, uh-” Winston began, “-we’re in Siberia. It’s, um, ahaha, cold!”

“I bet,” McCree said.

Winston cleared his throat and laughed that same laugh again. Tracer turned, revved up the chronal accelerator with a thought, and blinked from the hoverjet’s bay doors to the cockpit’s console. She saw the fur on Winston’s arm stand on end from the brief swell of paradox. The cockpit chair creaked, spinning in a circle next to her.

“Hey, luv, it’s Tracer!” She chirped.

“Oh. Well, _howdy_ , Miss Tracer.” There was a weird significance to the way he said her name, and a hollow change in sound-quality. It sounded like he’d turned away from the receiver.

“Winston told me you signed back up to join the crew, that’s brilliant! We know it’s all a bit iffy ‘cause of the PETRAS act.”

“Glad to be back, Miss,” he said.

“Well, I guess you’ve never had an issue working outside the law!” Winston put in with another nervous laugh. As soon as it was out of his mouth, he looked at Tracer, making a pained face. She covered her mouth to stifle her giggle and grabbed him by the shoulder.

McCree hummed. “Oh, I’m real honored that y’all would let a sonova B in with you fine folks of the big O.” Winston had a look, half of mortification, and half of indignance, at McCree’s slow sarcasm.

“W-well, we’re really glad to have you back on board!” Tracer said with extra enthusiasm, “So what’s the reason for your call? Did you wrap up your last job?”

McCree chuckled another monosyllabic chuckle. “See, there’s the rub, Miss. I think _my_ job is about to turn into _your_ job.”

Tracer exchanged a look with Winston. “What do you mean?”

“I got hired to stop a heist,” McCree said. “Turned out the ones doing the heisting were Talon.”

Tracer’s spine curved at her shoulders then down, involuntary. Her fingers bent into nervous claws. “Who from Talon?”

“Rank-and-file, mostly. Small strike team, half a dozen. One fella...with a mask, and he…” McCree’s voice got cold and quiet.

“What kind of mask?” Winston asked, leaning forward.

“An owl.” He said the word like sigh after a fresh drink of water. “It looked like an owl.”

Winston turned to Tracer, putting his broad hand over the console’s receiver. “That’s the man that attacked Gibraltar. He was trying to get the old personnel files.”

Tracer furrowed her brow and nodded, then turned back and elbowed his hand away. “Was there a sniper?”

“Hm?”

“A sniper. Was one of them a sniper?”

“Yeah,” he said. Then, “Naw. No Talon sniper.”

Winston thinned his lips and looked at Tracer with significance. He mouthed “hiding something” to her.

Tracer chewed her lip, then spoke into the receiver. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“Weren’t much point to a sniper, we were indoors.”  
“We?” Winston leaned forward, still with a scowl like he was thinking.

“Oh, yeah,” McCree said rhetorically. “Forgot to mention, I met an old friend.” His voice got hollow again. Speaking to someone else. “Why don’t you come here and say a ‘hello’ to Miss Tracer?”

A distant, garbled sigh, then muffled, staccato words in a foreign language, then the shuffling of the phone being passed around. Some words in Japanese, then Tracer’s translator crackled to life in her ear.

“It feels weird holding a phone,” he said, not to her. McCree, far off, chuckled at that. Tracer’s heart went into her throat.

In unison, she and Winston both said, “Genji?”

McCree, in the background, laughed again.

“Hello, Miss Oxton,” Genji said. Her heart plummeted from her throat down to the bottom of her stomach.

“Genji!” Winston cut in while Tracer recovered from Genji’s cool formality. “Where _are_ you?” Winston asked it like a parent getting a call from their teenager at 2AM.

“I am still in Hanamura. My cousin hired McCree to stop a heist close-by to the local ramen shop. She made it sound like it was small and local, but considering that Talon is here… I believe she must be hiding something bigger. Overwatch  needs to come to Japan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For people reading the full Omnic Crisis story chronologically, just continue on to the next chapter (:
> 
> To all the people clamoring for Tracer to hop on the plane with Genji - I know I didn't fulfill your wishes, but LOOK! SHE'S GONNA GET THERE! And there will be other Overwatch people with her! It's gonna be so fun, you guys. You don't know how much I've been looking forward to the next few upcoming chapters.  
> Also, another update, I'm going to be at AWA! Don't know if I'm going to dress up, but if I do, I'll let you guys know as what (: Please come say hi!


	12. A Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Welcome back to Time Machine! I've been enjoying "May I" but this fic is my first love <3
> 
> A long-ish one this week. I love writing Shimada-angst, but I love writing for Tracer too ;-; 
> 
> I will be at AWA this weekend! Probably won't cosplay, but I will be at an Overwatch meetup on Saturday. My guess is I'll be wearing a Zarya shirt :> So come say hi!
> 
> As always, streaming the game tonight! 9PM-?? I've swapped to OBS so hopefully we won't have as many problems as last week. https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher
> 
> Thank you so much to my wonderful readers, and especially my beta-readers milfordb, Doc, Jae and Chiptooth!
> 
> Hope to see you on the stream!

 

The hoverjet was on autopilot. As she stuffed her late dinner of crisps in her mouth, Tracer’s gaze kept wandering from the manilla-envelope report on her lap to the switch on the console that would click the ship back to manual. She’d done the takeoff, of course, and would land the thing in Hanamura soon, but that was all business. She wanted to  _ fly _ . Even in this boat of an aircraft, it would feel good.

But doing barrel-rolls wouldn’t earn her any points with Winston and Mercy back in the cabin, and besides, this fat thing couldn’t break Mach 2. Tracer sighed at the autopilot switch, grabbed another oily crisp from the bag, and looked back down at the report. 

It was all the information they had on all known members of Talon. Tracer paged through them all, scanning the names, specializations and photos, mostly. She had read(well, skimmed) all the profiles already, and looking at them again felt like needless repetition. That was, until she got to one of the last pages. Unlike the others, this sheet had worn edges, covered in greasy fingerprints. Her thumb grazed the top of the page. 

Name: Amélie Lacroix. 

Alias: Widowmaker.

_ She won’t be here, _ Tracer told herself. McCree said there hadn’t been a Talon sniper at the heist, and even then, it had been a week before Overwatch had finished up in Russia. Talon was long gone by now.

Tracer looked back down at the photo.  _ Not Amélie, _ she thought as she looked at the inhuman, lavender skin; the predatory, yellow eyes. When she tore her eyes away and looked out of the windscreen, the city was spread out below. In the dark of the evening, the building weren’t quite visible. Instead, it was a haphazard grid of vague shapes. It looked like a web spread out underneath her, the city lights like dewdrops sticking to the threads. 

The cabin door popped open, making Tracer jump and abruptly fold the Talon file closed. She leaned around. It was Mercy that had entered, a fork poised in her hand. She was having a late dinner of her own: it was a salad, because of  _ course  _ it was. 

“Hello, Lena,” Mercy said brightly, looking out the window as she made a perfect miniature version of the salad on her fork. There were no croutons on Mercy’s salad; no cheese or crumbled bacon. Just baked chicken and leaves. Vinaigrette. Tracer snorted, then stuffed a handful of crisps in her mouth.

“I don’t know how you can eat those things, Lena,” Mercy laughed. “They’re terrible for you, you know?”

“Had no idea,” Lena said sarcastically, but her mouth was full of half-chewed crisps, so it came out more like “Hag gyo igeya.”

Mercy simpered at her. “Shouldn’t you have your hands on the wheel?” she asked. It was more inquisitive than accusatory, but it irked Tracer a bit anyway. She leaned forward and tapped the console where it read “auto-pilot” in green, glowing letters. 

“Ah!” Mercy said, smiling. “You know, it occurs to me, I have never seen you pilot anything besides the hoverjet, back and forth from missions.”

Tracer swallowed the food in her mouth. “You weren’t at the Slipstream demo?”

“No.”

“Funny, that.” Tracer grabbed another stack of crisps. “You always seem real curious about new tech stuff. Felt like Lúcio had barely touched down in Krasnoyarsk and you were already pickin’ his brain about his sonic amplifier. Went on all week.”

Mercy giggled girlishly, lifting her fork up like how a queen in a painting wouldmight hold a scepter. “Well, that’s medical tech. Of course I was interested in its working. Fighter jets are hardly my area of expertise.” 

It wasn’t a dig, and Tracer knew it, but something at the back of her mind suggested a patronizing subtext:  _ Fighter jets aren’t interesting to me. They aren’t worth my very precious, managed, manicured time. They do not fit in my five-year plan.  _

Tracer liked Mercy, really, she did, because it felt like Mercy was developed in a lab to be likable. Warm, kind, benevolent. Beautiful and brilliant. She could cut guys open and fix them, bring them back from the dead. She held her own on a battlefield while wearing heels. Mercy became the head of surgery at a prestigious medical college at  _ sixteen _ . She was in Overwatch because she was a genius. 

Tracer was in Overwatch because of an accident. 

_ Fighter jets aren’t interesting to me. They don’t help people. They aren’t a worthy cause.  _

Tracer put another crisp in her mouth and chewed sulkily.

Tracer felt Mercy’s hand on her shoulder, and turned her head to look at it. Mercy’s nails looked like she’d just come from a french manicure. Tracer looked down at her own hand. Her nails were chewed-down stubs. “I’m sorry, Lena,” Mercy said. “I know the Slipstream incident is a sensitive subject. If… you ever want to talk about it-”

Tracer cut her off, plastering on a smile. “ _ Nah, _ it’s alright. I got this cool doo-dad out of it, eh?” She knocked on the chronal accelerator. Mercy smiled a tiny, purse-lipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It felt a bit too much like pity. Tracer puffed her cheeks up and looked back to the flight display.

They were in striking distance of Hanamura’s tiny airfield now. Tracer thumbed the hoverjet’s autopilot off and she felt the change as the engine dropped its thrust. Heels clattered behind her, and the back of Tracer’s pilot chair leaned back as Mercy grasped it for balance. Tracer gripped the throttle and evened it out, descending down towards the city.

“You couldn’t be a little more delicate, Lena?” Mercy joked, brushing a weft of her pale hair back into place. 

_ Aren’t you supposed to be a pilot? Can’t you even fly a plane right? What are you even doing here, anyway?  _

Tracer curled her lip, then nudged the throttle, just a smidge. The hoverjet jerked. Mercy’s heels skidded again, clutching the chair for balance.

Tracer smirked. “Sorry, luv,” she chirped. “Guess I’m not the delicate type.” Tracer held the wheel steady and smooth, then the jet lurched again. Tracer’s brow knit.

“Lena!” Mercy said, harsh this time, like a schoolteacher. “That isn’t funny.”

The hoverjet started tilting left. “That wasn’t me, luv,” Tracer said, toeing the rudder. “Athena, what was that?”

Athena’s cool, computer-generated voice thrummed out from the overhead speakers. “Still processing data, but the problem seems to have originated at the left engine.”

“The left engine?” Tracer’s chest screwed up tight, one shaking hand keeping the wheel steady, the other tapping the display to open a view of the mechanics. “No, no, no, I checked the left three times before we took off.” 

“Lena, what’s going on?” Mercy gripped the back of Tracer’s chair, then hugged it when the plane lurched again. An alarm on the console started to beep frantically, coming from the overhead schematic of the hoverjet Tracer had brought up on the screen. The left engine was flashing red. 

Tracer turned to Mercy. “Go to the cabin and strap in.”

Mercy sucked in a shallow breath and nodded, rushing back through the cockpit door, shutting it behind her. “Left engine lost,” Athena crooned placidly over the chirping alarm. The wheel shook in Tracer’s hands. The hoverjet kept wavering, 

_ Left engine. Left engine. Raise the dead. Like Ange, like Genji. I checked it three times. Three!  _

Winston’s voice came over the speakers. “Lena, what’s going on?” It sounded hollow and distant, muffled by her own hammering, shallow breaths. The edges of Tracer’s vision started to get fuzzy.

_ Aileron is a french word. Little wing. Foolish girl. Grab the rope, Lena. Raise the dead. Left engine. _

When the Slipstream’s teleportation matrix had malfunctioned, Tracer had spent months in its tailspin. The sky, which had always felt like open freedom, had unraveled into a thousand splayed, helical threads that split and split before her. She’d gotten lost, navigating a maze of alternate timelines. Whether real or imagined, the threads appeared again before her eyes now, exploding out into a thousand different possibilities. 

A thread where Genji holds her close and says “Come with me to Japan.” A thread where she smooth-talks her way onto his plane. “This is your captain speaking! All cyborg ninja’s report to the cockpit!” His little shit grin when she repeats “cock” over the airplane announcement, then snorts with laughter. A thread where he says “I wish you were here” and she says “Me too.” She says “I’m coming to you.” A thread where he doesn’t say “Miss Oxton” on the call, he says “ _ Lena _ .” 

A thread where she had warned Mondatta’s guards even a minute earlier. A thread where she’d helped get him out instead of chasing after Widowmaker. A thread where she hadn’t blinked out of the way of the bullet. She would be dead, but Mondatta would be alive. Maybe more. Maybe the omniums wouldn’t have reactivated in  Krasnoyarsk. Maybe none of this would be happening. 

A thread where Amélie never killed Gerard, where Amélie is there on the jet with them, laughing over Lena’s shoulder, calling her a foolish girl, but with warmth instead of in that bitter, cold, mocking tone. Sitting beside her on stone balustrade in the gardens. In this thread, Amélie doesn’t pull her hand away. She doesn’t say, “I’m sorry, Lena, I don’t feel this way about you,” she says “I love you too.” 

She says “I love you, too, Thomas,” instead of hanging up the phone. It’s reluctant, sulky, but Tracer means it. In this thread she  _ says  _ it instead of just hanging up the phone. A thread where Thomas gets off the train and makes fun of her homemade sign, hugs her in his thick arms. A thread where Thomas is at the Slipstream launch, clapping his hands, smiling at her, instead of being pieces in a box.

“Lena!” 

A thread where Tracer listens to her dad, where she never signs her name on the dotted line, never flies the Slipstream, the accident never happened and she never saw all these perfect, terrible possibilities. She’d flown into them and stuck, and the more she struggled the tighter they got. Every past and future possibility woven together and splayed out, thin and glittering and inescapable. 

Like a web. Like a web! 

“ _ Lena! _ ”

_ Grab the rope, Lena. Raise the dead.  _ The city beneath her, like a web, rushing up at her. No, she was rushing down. The plane, the hoverjet was leaning hard to the left, nosediving, starting to spin. She had to get out of it. Those other realities weren’t real. Just this one.

Tracer slammed her foot down on the right rudder, white-knuckling the wheel. The city was rushing up to meet them, but she needed to even the hoverjet out first. Cars stopped looking like ants and started looking like toys.

“Lena, we’re going to crash!”

“No, we’re not,” she said, and pulled up.

The belly of the hoverjet practically skidded past the tops of the buildings. She had leveled out. 

Tracer took a long, deep breath, then lifted them to a safe altitude, heading for the airstrip.

 

\----

The instant they were on the ground, Tracer was out of the pilot’s seat and running for the exit. She rushed past Winston and Mercy in the cabin, still unbuckling themselves from their seats. “Lena, what happened-” Mercy started to ask, but Tracer was already ducking under the opening bay doors. 

“Three times. I checked it  _ three times _ ,” she muttered, rounding the hoverjet, heading for the left engine. Mercy and Winston chased after her, throwing questions at her back, which she ignored. She got hit in the face with the engine’s heat, rolling off. It was still attached - wasn’t even blown. 

“But Athena said the left engine was gone.” Winston, behind her, spoke her thoughts aloud. Tracer moved out from the heat of the exhaust, heading to check the front of the engine. That’s when she saw them: two tiny, twin holes punched through the engine’s pale, metal plating. She leaned in close to them until she felt the heat from the metal on her cheeks.

“What are those, Lena?” Winston knuckled up to her shoulder and adjusted his glasses.

“Bullet holes,” Tracer whispered.

“Bullet holes?” Winston’s surprise bordered on panic. “An enemy aircraft?”

“Too small, and it’d be machine-gun fire, not two holes. I think someone shot the ship from the ground.”

Behind her, she felt Winston turn to look at Mercy. “From the ground?” He laughed, nervous. “But, aside from a missile, the only gun that could shoot us that high up would be a-”

“Sniper rifle,” Tracer finished, grimacing.

“That’s improbable, Lena. The math on an upward shot like that…” He shook his head. “And besides, an engine failure on an aircraft like this isn’t even that serious a problem. If someone on the the ground wanted to take the ship down, they could have shot out the windows or something. Why would they take out the left… engine…” The conclusion Tracer had come to the instant she saw the two punctures washed over Winston’s face. 

“It’s her. She knew I’d be flying.” Tracer hated how her voice warbled, wished she could stop it but it just came out. “She’s here.” She shouldered past Winston and Mercy, heading back to the bay door to retrieve her gear from the hoverjet’s cabin.

“Lena...” Winston whispered. She could hear him speaking with Mercy behind her. 

“Vhat is she talking about?” Mercy asked.

“The Slipstream,” Winston said. “During the test, the left engine on the jet blew and it knocked the teleportation matrix out of alignment. It’s how the accident happened.”

Tracer wasn’t looking at them, but she could imagine Mercy’s pitying expression almost perfectly. She spun around and made herself smile, giving Winston and Mercy a little salute. “Winston, it’s probably gonna take you a tick to get the rover out, yeah? Sounds like a good time to take my motorbike for a spin!” She made something like a giggle come out of her throat, then spun back around. Her smile fell off. Somehow, she was sure she wasn’t fooling anyone, but after her freak-out behind the wheel of the hoverjet, she had to at least try and grin through it.

Tracer rounded the fuselage, then climbed through the open bay door, back into the hoverjet’s cabin. “Athena, I need the coords for where the engine failure started. Upload it to my comm.” Tracer crossed the cabin from the door to the lockers on the opposite wall. 

“Understood,” Athena said. Tracer tapped in her passcode, tugged her locker door open, then retrieved her pulse pistols. As she turned to head back out the bay doors, kicking the locker door shut, her wrist buzzed. She assumed it was the coordinates from Athena, but when she lifted her wrist, she saw it was a call from Genji. She tapped the green phone icon on her screen.

“Yeah?” 

“Ah, hello,” Genji said. “We got word from the airfield that your plane had landed?”

“Why is the airfield calling you?” She was being sharp with him, but she was on edge, and besides, she hadn’t completely forgiven him for not responding to her texts.

“Well… it is the Shimada family’s airfield.”

“Well, la-di-da,” she sang, mocking. “They tell you someone tried to shoot the plane down?”

_ “What?” _

“You ‘n McCree were right. It was Talon.” 

“Damn! Are you alright?”

Tracer smiled on instinct, a tight grimace. “Yeah, of course,” she laughed.

Genji’s voice on the comm got quiet. “Are you sure?”

In the background, McCree hollered. “Who ya’ on with? Winston?”

Tracer looked over her shoulder. Winston and Mercy were still out by the engine.

“Lena? Are you there?”

It felt like she’d swallowed cotton.  _ Lena. _ Tracer turned her back to the bay doors and whispered down into the comm.

“No,” she said.

“Uh. No, you are not there?”

“No.” She laughed, a little, and not forced. “I’m… I’m not alright. Genj, it’s Widowmaker. She’s here, she tried to shoot the plane down.”

“How do you know it was her?” It was curious, not doubtful.

“They were sniper rounds. I was flying in like always, yeah? And… she took out the left engine.” Genji had been at the Slipstream demo - he knew what that meant. Tracer’s eyes were hot. She put a hand on her throat, it felt so choked.  _ I freaked out. I lost it. I nearly flew Winston and Ange into the ground. _ “There were two shots, both on the left engine. It was on purpose.” 

“She  _ what? _ ” A pause. “ _ Where is she? _ ” The subdued rage in his voice was hotly satisfying. 

Tracer took a breath, and this time when she smiled, it was genuine. “I’ll send you the coords.”

\---

There was something comforting about the rumble of her motorbike beneath her. Hugging the engine, almost nothing between her and the power of the machine, the speed, the rubber on the road. It was nothing like driving a car or flying the fat hoverjet. It reminded her of a fighter jet - just wings, weapons, a big, mean engine and her. 

It wasn’t just her on the bike though. Mercy clutched her around the waist, helmet buried in Tracer’s shoulder. Tracer wasn’t being safe, she knew that, flying down the streets with impatient purpose, but she was getting close. Every time she glanced down at her watch, she saw the yellow dot, her, getting close to Athena’s coordinates. She was on fire with anger. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down, couldn’t pull it back. 

The dots came together. They were here.

Tracer slowed the motorbike to a stop and Mercy nearly leapt off, pulling the helmet off her head. Mercy’s hair flowed out of the helmet like a waterfall - like a movie scene with a rock ‘n roll soundtrack. Her cheeks were attractively flushed. Tracer pulled off her helmet, too. She could feel the sheen of sweat on her face, making her hair stick to her skin. The hair that wasn’t sweat-soaked was a frizzy, unkempt mess atop her head. Tracer blew a strand out of her eyes.

“Well,” Mercy breathed, smoothing her already perfect hair, “We got here fast.” It sounded more begrudging than impressed. Tracer didn’t answer, just brandished her pulse pistols and scanned the rooftops.

“We should get up high,” Tracer said. “Gonna be hard to see her from here.”

“Shouldn’t we wait until Jesse and Genji get here?” 

Tracer finished her once-over of the rooftops and turned to Mercy to answer. Moments like this seemed to almost slow down. Tracer was never sure if it was her altered time stream, her powers, or just the normal adrenaline of the moment. She looked at Mercy’s eyes first, then caught on the bright dot of color between them. 

She must have made a face as the chronal accelerator whirred up, because Mercy started to ask “What-”

After that everything was instant. Tracer blinked into a tackle, knocking Mercy to the ground as the shot ripped the sound and air above them. Mercy was readying her staff when Tracer spied the dot of red light flashing amidst the rooftop chimneys and air-conditioning units. She put down covering fire, and the next sniper shot veered wildly. 

Quick, Tracer scanned the side of the building and found a ladder. “Get to cover,” she told Mercy, then blinked forward, once, twice, thrice. Her hands slammed against the ladder’s frame. She shook it off and started to climb. Once at the top, she peeked over the edge of the roof, pointing one of her pistols around wildly.

Nothing.

Tracer pulled herself up, pistols aimed forward, every sound and shadow on the roof alerting her. Even the crunch of the gravel under her feet was arresting. It felt too familiar, too close to their battle in King’s Row. Falling, the rifle aimed right at her. Tracer had thought she was so clever, blinking out of the way of the bullet. All she’d done was line up Widowmaker’s perfect shot. 

A tiny click behind her, and Tracer’s accelerator whirred without a thought. The bullet cracked, whiplike. Tracer slid along the timeline like driving backwards, knowing more than seeing where she was headed. A fog at the edge of her vision, streaked, blooming with color. The reverse stopped, and now she was back at the edge of the roof, shoulder-to-shoulder with Widowmaker.

Tracer had a moment, an instant before Widowmaker realized she was there, to stare at her. She was belly-down on a broad, metal box of a power generator next to the top of the ladder, staring down the sights of her rifle. Amélie had always been beautiful in that dangerous sort of way, but the glittering spark in her eye had been replaced with an icy gleam. Someone else, wearing Amélie’s face. 

Widowmaker turned, snarled, started to rotate her rifle as the long barrel retracted back into the receiver. Tracer grabbed the muzzle of the gun, hot under her gloves, then tugged Widowmaker into the punch. The crack of her smooth, beautiful jaw against Tracer’s knuckles was immensely satisfying. 

Widowmaker crumpled, rolling a few feet across the generator box, gasping, then groaning. Tracer moved her pistols to her ears, approaching cautiously. Widowmaker tried to get up, but only managed to take a knee. Tracer stepped up on the power generator. She hadn’t hit her that hard, had she?

Tracer’s feet went out from under her. Widowmaker’s sweep had come around snakebite quick. Tracer fell back, off the generator, adding an extra two feet to the fall. Widowmaker was on top of her before she could even catch her breath. Tracer lifted her pistols. Her accelerator whirred up, then she felt the heel of Widowmaker’s shoe on her sternum, the hot muzzle of her rifle against her forehead.

“Put those little things down, cherie.” Widowmaker purred, simpering at her. Tracer huffed, then dropped her pulse pistols. 

A smirk. “I trust you ‘ad a pleasant flight.” 

Tracer glared, face twisted up.

Widowmaker laughed. “I knew you would come. Still nipping at my heels like un petit chien. Foolish girl.”

There it was, that epithet, once warm and teasing, now mocking and cruel. Tracer’s eyes felt hot, her throat tight. “I’m here because you killed Mondatta, so  _ I’m _ going to kill  _ you _ .”

Another smooth, dark-chocolate laugh. “Such a child. You tried so hard to save him.” Widowmaker inclined her chin forward, looked into Tracer’s eyes, looked through her. “You have no idea what he ‘as done.”

Tracer’s brow furrowed, lips making an “o” of confusion. What did she mean… what he’s done?

Widowmaker smiled just enough to show her teeth, eyes hooded in smug satisfaction. “It would almost be worth it to let you live, just to see your face,” she said, then pressed the barrel of the rifle harder into Tracer’s forehead. “Almost.”

It happened, again, slowly. The footsteps crescendoed up the stairs, the door flew open, then the rifle slid off Tracer’s forehead. Widowmaker covered her eyes with her hand, dazed, distracted. Tracer’s hand made a fist, and she punched her in the side. Widowmaker fell off her. Six rapid-fire shots exploded, too high, as Tracer’s hands pawed, then closed around, her pulse pistols. She got to her feet. 

The sniper didn’t try to play possum again this time. The grappling hook was already coming out as she rolled to her feet. “No!” Tracer snarled. She was vaguely aware of McCree at the door to the stairwell, winded, rapid-reloading his revolver. They both shot rounds off as Widowmaker swung away to a ledge. Nothing hit. The ledge was on the opposite side of the building, jutting from an opening that was cut into a tall, wooden gate. Widowmaker disappeared through the opening to the other side.

McCree jogged, huffing, to the edge of the building. “Damn! Got away,” he snapped. 

Tracer’s accelerator hummed. “Not yet.” She blinked in a rapidfire triplet, across the gap, shoes landing hard on the wooden ledge. Tracer passed through the portal cut into the gate. Widowmaker was on a wooden walkway, straight ahead, across another gap. Tracer aimed her pistols at her back, but Widowmaker already had her hands up.

“We do not have to be enemies, you, and I,” Widowmaker said. “What you desire, Talon ‘as the power to give you.”

_ Don’t have to be enemies? What is she on about? _

“Think of it,” Widowmaker said, her back still to Tracer, “Your family’s power, restored, with  _ you  _ at its head.”

_ She’s not talking to me,  _ Tracer realized. She was speaking to someone else, someone Tracer couldn't see. Family’s power? Tracer took her eyes off Widowmaker for just a moment, finally looking at where she was. It was a wide, open zen garden, with another gate that lead into what looked like a courtyard. All the buildings, arranged in a square around the garden, looked ancient, like this was a movie set for a samurai flick. Straight ahead was a wall-less shrine with a fat bell in the center. The bell had a relief of two ouroboros dragons. 

Tracer remembered this place. She was in Shimada castle. 

_ Is she… talking to Genji? _ If that was the case, why hadn’t he cut her up like cake yet? Was he actually entertaining this idea?

_ That  _ pissed her off. Tracer moved her fingers from the guard to the trigger and squeezed, shooting off a full burst from both pistols in Widowmaker’s direction. The sniper ducked, turned, shot a machine-gun round back at Tracer, who blinked past the spray, onto the platform. They both finished reloading at the same instant, guns trained at one another. It was a standoff.

On Tracer’s left, she heard the thunk of heavy steps, someone climbing the platform towards them. Tracer didn’t dare take her eyes off Widowmaker, even when she heard the click of a hammer being pulled back. Tracer clenched her teeth, waiting for the gunshot.

“Now just… hold right there, darlin’,” huffed McCree’s voice. “Quit hopping around. I ain’t climbin’ no more stairs.”

Now, Tracer dared a peek to the left. It was McCree, alright, his revolver trained on Widowmaker. Mercy was beside him, checking the display on her caduceus staff, no doubt for any injuries anyone might have sustained. Tracer laughed the tension out of her.

She felt the spatter of blood on her face before she saw the arrow. It speared out of Widowmaker’s chest like a battering ram through a door. Widow’s eyes went wide, but she barely made a sound as her legs gave out under her. When Widowmaker fell, Tracer saw there had been a man behind her, a broad-shouldered, serious-looking Japanese man with a neat beard, wearing a kyudo-gi with only one sleeve. He was clutching a bow, the string still vibrating.

Mercy was the first to move, gliding to Widowmaker’s side, her staff connected to the dying woman by a single, golden thread of light. 

Tracer gaped at her. “What are you doing?”   
Mercy stood over Widowmaker’s crumpled body, reaching down for the arrow. Widow made a hiccupping sound as Mercy slowly, wetly slid the arrow out of her chest. Tracer ran up to Mercy’s shoulder. She could already see the arrow wound starting to close. The Japanese man with the beard looked down at the wound with a puzzled, offended face. Tracer grabbed Mercy by the arm.

“ _ What _ are you  _ doing _ ?”

“We could bring her back,” Mercy said. “Capture, not kill. Imagine what she could tell us about Talon.”

“Are you _insane_?”  
“I will not stand by and allow someone to die if I can prevent it!” Mercy’s voice had risen, shrill, unlike her. “She was our friend, once, Lena. If we can get her back-”

They were interrupted by something small falling down at their feet, seemingly from the sky. The Japanese man spun, drawing an arrow and shooting it up towards the bowed roof of the shrine. When the arrow flew past the edge of the roof, Tracer saw the air ripple like water, briefly revealing a vague, humanoid shape. 

Tracer looked down to her feet. She couldn’t be sure what the thing was, something small and mechanical, with a pulsing, electric blue light. It cackled, a feminine laugh, tinny from the lo-fi speaker. Printed on the top of the device, cut out and elevated, was a pixelated skull. Widowmaker took a smooth, noisy, theatrical breath in and smiled up at them. The wound on her chest was nearly closed.

“Thank you for the aid, doctor,” Widowmaker purred, eyes locked with Mercy’s. “You must really like me.” Her hand slammed down on the device at Tracer’s feet. The skull pressed in; a button. Tracer watched as Widow started to shimmer out of her vision, like a mirage clearing. The hole left by the arrow was now gone. 

“No,” Tracer cried. “No, no, no!” Widowmaker’s voice sounded far away when she said, “Adieu.” The golden thread from Mercy’s staff suddenly exploded in a dozen different directions before cutting off. 

Widowmaker was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For people reading the full Omnic Crisis story chronologically, the next chapter is [May I, Chapter Three: Simple](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7991308/chapters/18712985). 
> 
> Curse you sneaky spider!! And damn, Hanzo, you're ruthless!
> 
> Yeah, poor Tracer did the whole anime confession thing and got shut down T_T I know that feel bb.
> 
> I feel like I need to apologize to Mercy fans after this chapter? Honestly, Mercy's rad - Tracer's just making it way worse than it actually is. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! Hanzo's first chapter in "May I" next week!


	13. Vanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Welcome back to Time Machine!
> 
> First things first, we're streaming tonight, 10/6 at 9PM EST!  
> https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher  
> I'm going to stream, HotS this week instead of Overwatch, since I'm saving my prestige for Halloween boxes. Stop by and say hi, or if you'd like to join us, message me on tumblr(azuka-bladefury.tumblr.com) or twitter(@ingrid_archer) for my battletag.
> 
> Thank you to my beta-readers: Milfordb, Doc, Jae, and Chip! You guys make these chapters so much better~ I couldn't do it without you!
> 
> An update:  
> So originally this chapter was doubly-long, but my writing buddy milfordb pointed out that for the past few weeks I'd been showing up with really _rough_ outlines of really _long_ chapters. Since I started May I, I've been trying to keep to my back-and-forth schedule and therefore keep pace with each story every week. It's been causing me to rush through things a lot. To keep to the schedule, the content of this entire chapter likely would have never seen the light of day, even though I love it and feel like it's very much in the spirit of story.  
>  SO! I made an executive decision to cleave this chapter in two, and throw out the rigid format of the schedule entirely.  
> I'll still update every Thursday at 9(I need SOME structure to keep me going), but it's just going to be an update to the series. Could be Time Machine, could be May I - it all depends on the order events need to unfold. I can tell you, next week Time Machine will get another update. Sorry McHanzo peeps! You have a lot of content coming up, so there will likely be weeks where you guys get two chapters in a row too~  
> I hope this works okay for everyone. It will just make things easier on me and ensure scenes like this go out with the love and attention they deserve (:

_ Wear some actual clothes for once, _ his cousin had said. 

Keiko had put him up in a small guest room on the lower floor instead of his old room in the family quarters, up at the top of Shimada House. That was for the best, he’d decided two days into his stay at Shimada Castle. Genji was certainly curious what had happened to that room, but ultimately, he was glad to be separate from it. His cousin had, in every other way, expected him to be his old self.  _ Let's go hit on those girls. We gotta take your weird friends out to the club.  _

_ Wear some actual clothes for once. _

Stripped down to his body suit, mask off, door locked, Genji stared at himself in the full-length mirror. He'd lived an ascetic life since going to the monastery. Even before then, he’d roomed in Watchpoint Gibralter’s tiny bunks and worn only the trainee uniform, then the armor Dr. Ziegler had made for him. 

In Nepal, amidst Zenyatta and the Shambali, Genji hid under his helmet and suit. He’d felt more Omnic than human, and that had felt good. He had finally fit in somewhere instead of being cloven in half, a wrong and broken thing.  _ Werewolf. _ He stared at his helmet and armor, sitting on a chair near the door, and it felt like staring at his own face. They protected him in more ways than one.

The closet door was next to the mirror. Genji looked through it for the third time, shuffling through the shirts and slacks; kicking around the shoes. Nothing stood out. He used to  _ enjoy _ doing this. Getting ready to go out was almost as fun as  _ being _ out: choosing the right clothes, the right accessories, the right makeup, the right way to style his hair. He remembered  _ admiring  _ himself in mirrors, pleased with looking just so.  

Now, he could barely stand to look at himself. The stark, black jaw; the metal plates on his jawline; the circuits welded into the sides of his head. What was left of his face was covered in wormy scars. A _ freak, _ Keiko called him now, as a joke. Genji had thought, through his years of introspection with Zenyatta, he’d gotten past the point where it hurt to hear. He shut his eyes. He didn’t want to look at that face anymore.

The knock was startling. Genji’s eyes shot open. From instinct, he grabbed his helmet and visor, starting to put them on. “Ya,” he asked the door.

“Hey Genj? It's me.” Me was Tracer. 

Genji looked down at the two pieces of his helmet, one in each hand. Instead of his cousin hissing freak in the back of his mind, he thought of the loud clang when Tracer would knock on his faceplate.  _ Hate that thing _ . Genji put the two pieces back down on the chair, unlocked the door then opened it a crack. A thrill rushed warmth through his body.

Tracer was in a dark, slim-fitting suit, dotted with flashes of yellow - the cufflinks, the untied tie, the placket of her crisp dress shirt. He realized belatedly that she’d said something. “Huh?”

Tracer giggled. “You alright, luv?” 

“Mm, I…” Genji swallowed, eyes following the peek of suspenders under her jacket, making a soft curve across her chest on either side of her humming chronal accelerator. “Where did you get that?” 

“Get what?”

As Genji’s eyes traced every sharp, well-tailored line of the suit, he spied a tiny, black design in the yellow of the cufflinks: a striking snake.

_ Of course.  _

“Nevermind,” Genji said, making a mental note to either thank Keiko later or punch her. “Come in.”

Tracer did, blinking through the door as Genji opened it for her. “I don't mean to bug you, but, em, Ange keeps asking when we’re leaving.”

Genji shut the door and furrowed his brow, the time from his internal clock coming up in his mind like a memory. “It's only nine,” he said.

Tracer giggled. “Club’s not really her scene, luv. Plus, you know Ange, she likely wants to get some work in before bedtime, and, well…”

“What?”

“I’m not sure she gets on with your cousin.”

Genji caught himself eying Tracer up again. “Sometimes neither do I,” he muttered. He had the urge to put some wrinkles in that crisp suit, employing any number of methods.

“Whatcha lookin’ at,” Tracer asked. Genji couldn't discern if it was knowingly or not.

It was odd. This was their first time alone together since he’d left for Japan. Genji didn’t know how to proceed. He still didn't know if he'd rejoin Overwatch, and therefore didn't know what the future might hold for him and Tracer. Still, seeing her in that suit caused him to make any number of plans for the  _ immediate  _ future, most of them involving the order in which he’d take each piece of the suit  _ off  _ her.

“Ah, sorry... Please tell Dr. Ziegler I am still getting ready,” he said, though it was obvious from his state of undress he wasn't anywhere close. 

Tracer gasped and blinked forward so she was a few inches in front of him. “Are you going out without the mask?”

“No,” he said, shrinking in the face of her enthusiasm. “But my cousin insisted I wear something besides my armor.”

“Oh! Do you even own clothes?”

Genji laughed. “Not really, no. There are some in the closet that Keiko provided.” He nodded towards the door next to the mirror. Tracer blinked over to it and slid it open with a hasty clack. 

“Where’d she get ‘em?”

“I don’t know. Likely, she stole them from some of the brothers.”

Tracer stifled a giggle, then went back to browsing the closet’s contents. “Hm... T-shirts, jeans. Dresses. Few button-ups, trousers. Look at this preppy thing, haha!” Tracer pulled out a black cardigan and wiggled it in front of him. “Put it on, I gotta see it!”

“You’re making fun of me,” Genji laughed. “Besides I can’t put that on by itself.”

“I mean, you  _ could _ ,” she said, grinning so big it shrank her huge, hazel eyes. Cheeky. “It’d be more clothes than you usually wear.”

“My suit isn’t any tighter than yours,” he said, poking her side. She giggled. Genji took the sweater by its hem, looking it over. “You’d need something under it, like-” He trailed off, scrolling through the hangers in the closet. “-this.” He pulled out a black dress shirt. “And a tie.”

“A  _ tie _ ?” Tracer gave him a skeptical look.

“Trust me.”

Before long Genji had assembled something resembling an outfit, with some added selections from Tracer. Genji adjusted himself in the mirror, and for the first time in a long time, he felt… sort of good about how he looked. His hair was a mess and his face looked like raw meat, but from the neck down he was actually presentable.

Tracer didn’t look as impressed, standing at his shoulder and examining his reflection. “It still looks too stiff.” 

“Says the girl in suspenders.”

Tracer stuck out her tongue. “Try rolling up the sleeves, yeah? Show off that goofy giant watch I picked out, hehe.”

Genji shifted, looking away from his own face. “It’s bad enough my hands are showing.” An elbow jabbed him where ribs should be.

“You show your ass all the time!”

He smirked despite himself. “Ya, but I have a great ass.” Smug, confident. For a moment, in the mirror, in the corner of his eye, he thought he saw green hair and smooth, pale skin. He tried to focus on it, but when he did, all he could see were scars and metal.

Tracer chortled. “You’ve got great wrists too. Come on! Let’s at least give it a look!”

Genji looked down from his reflection and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. He shifted to and fro, viewing it from different angles and in different poses.  

“Yeah?” Tracer wheedled.

“Ya,” he admitted, “I suppose you had at least one good idea, suspenders girl.” He turned to face her and posed, smirking. Tracer looked away from him for a moment, and he realized her ears had gone pink. When did that happen? 

Tracer snapped the suspenders. “Hey, I make these look good, okay!” She grinned at him, pink cheeks pushed up and spattered with freckles.  

Genji hesitated, then stepped forward and put a hand on her waist. “Yes. You do…”

Tracer swallowed audibly. “Y’think so? I figured it was a bit...”

Genji raised his eyebrows at her, leaning in a little closer. She giggled.

“...well, a bit gay, yeah?”

Genji snorted with laughter and fell forward into her shoulder. He felt her arms touch his back, but not tightly. It was gentle; hesitant. A test.

“Remember when I went to that OW benefit in a tux?”

“I  _ definitely  _ remember that,” he crooned into her shoulder. He must have let the subtext slip through in his voice, because she shivered against him. Her fingers smoothed down the line of his back. She smelled clean, as opposed to her usual scent of leather and gasoline.

Tacer leaned back, then looked from one of his eyes to the other. He wanted to kiss her badly, to press his lips to her flushed cheeks and pink ears. Reluctantly, he slipped his hand from her hips into his pockets, then looked down at his oversized sneakers.

Tracer cleared her throat. “Well, em, haha, I may as well go and tell Ange we’re about ready, yeah?”

“You don’t want to do your makeup?” It was out of his mouth before he realized how it might sound.

Tracer stopped mid-exit and spun around on one heel to look back at him. She chewed her lip, twisting the edge of her jacket. “Em… I’m not any good at makeup, really. Any time I try it’s all crooked or it looks way overdone, so I usually just skip it.”

“I could help.”

Tracer’s mouth made an  _ o  _ and her brows went to her hairline. “Really?”

“Mm! I am out of practice, but I used to do it all the time when Keiko and I would go out. Come.”

They went into the room’s bathroom. It was a thin room, with a huge mirror and double vanity. Tracer dug some concealer, eyeliner, and mascara out of her assorted suit pockets. Genji went through the bathroom’s drawers and turned up some broken jewelry, a fluffy brush still its packaging, bars of soap, a half-empty bottle of aspirin, a chewed-up lipstick, and a contouring set that was, luckily, at least close to the right color for Tracer’s pink skin. He went back into the bedroom to find a chair.

“I don’t want to look done up, y’know?” She called it over her shoulder from the other room. He could hear her picking up the different items off the counter. Genji leered at her through the bathroom doorway, then shot a considering glance at the overlarge guest bed before pushing the thought down and carrying the chair inside. 

“Here, sit.”

“What’s this stuff for?”

“Contouring,” he said, examining his limited resources.

“What’s that?”

“Sit.”

She sat. “What is it?”

The packaging on the brush crackled as he opened it. “I’ll show you.”

It took maybe a half-hour, and Tracer fidgeted the whole time. Still, no matter how many times he asked if she’d rather go without, she insisted that it was interesting. She certainly did ask questions every step of the way. “What’s that do? And why do you do that? Won’t that look goofy?”

Beyond that, touching her was sort of comforting. It was intimate in a way he’d rarely been with partners in the past. It would have felt merely friendly if it weren’t for how electric it was to touch her flushed skin. She’d giggle when he told her to hold still, either ticklish or unable to remain stationary for long, Genji couldn’t tell which. Finally, she put on a comical frown and announced she would be “Very still and very serious.”

“Like your-” she stopped herself. Genji lifted the eyeliner brush up off her lid.

“Like my…?”

A pause. “Like your brother.”

_ Ah. _

After a beat, Genji went back to painting the liner on. “McCree said you met him.”

“Yeah.”

Genji smirked. He made sure he’d finished the eye and moved the brush away before adding, “He told me you punched him in the face.”

As predicted, Tracer snorted a suppressed giggle. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

Leaning back in, he pulled the skin on Tracer’s other eyelid taut and painted a thin, careful, practiced line.

“What did he do?” 

The sound of her swallowing, then no answer.

“Oh,” he said.

“Look, just because I didn’t want you to  _ kill  _ him, doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve a good clobbering,” she said.

“You do not need to apologize. It is sweet, in a way.” Genji stood up and made a stoic pose. “Overwatch hero Tracer, defending my honor!” She snorted, then pressed her shoulders back and gave him a salute. 

“All in a day’s work, luv!”

They laughed, then he went back to her lid. “Did you talk to him at all?”

Tracer kicked her legs and chewed her lip. “I talked  _ at  _ him plenty, but didn’t give him much chance to talk back. He has such a serious face, though! Like he’s never smiled a day in his life.”

Genji chuckled. “He has not, trust me.” He lifted his brush and went back to her other eye. “He might come tonight.”

“Hanzo?”

“Ya.” 

He felt her face shift under his hands. “Are you two friends now?”

The shift had left a little notch in his line. He wiped it off before answering. “I am not certain.”

“What happened?”

“We fought. I won.” Genji re-drew the line and leaned back, but didn’t look at her face. “I forgave him.”

“That’s... sudden,” she laughed.

“That is what McCree and Keiko said.”

“But it’s good!” 

“Perhaps. I wish I had master Zenyatta’s guidance.”

Tracer frowned. “Still no luck getting a hold of him?”

“No. I wonder if he feels I must walk this path with Hanzo and Keiko  instead of with him. Still, with all that is happening, I wish he would tell me so. I just want to know that he is well.”

Tracer hummed, and as he put on the finishing touches, Genji could see on her face she was anxious about it as well. At last, Genji took a step back to admire his work. She blinked her wide, hazel eyes open and he took a long breath in through his nose.

Beautiful was not quite the word for how she looked. Angela was beautiful; Amelie, even Fareeha, were beautiful. Tracer was cute; sweet, boyish, handsome; undeniably and almost irresistibly attractive to him.  _ My type. _ No wonder Keiko had picked Tracer out of the group and stuck her in a suit. He’d forgotten how well his cousin knew him. 

“What's next?” Tracer asked, eying the makeup spread out over the counter.

Genji brushed his knuckles along her jawline, then into the collar of her shirt.  _ Next I kiss it all off your face,  _ he thought. His fingertips ghosted across her clavicle, pushing the collar farther open and feeling the warm skin. He fingered the clasped button at her breast.  _ Next I wrinkle up this suit.  _ He watched Tracer’s face in the mirror; her eyes lidded, her lips parted just a bit. She was watching at his reflection too. 

He  _ could _ kiss her; could take her apart one button at a time. If that happened, they wouldn’t get to the club until midnight at the  _ earliest _ . He smirked at how furious Mercy would be, seeing the two of them exit his room hours later, dressed but rumpled, red in the face and grinning from ear to ear. From the look in her eye, Genji was pretty sure Tracer was as keen on the idea as he was, but what would happen after that? 

Keiko would laugh at him for worrying about what comes next, especially when it came to a sexual partner. But that wasn't what Tracer was to him, not exactly. He wanted her to be happy, but she was in Overwatch again, and Genji didn’t know if he would go with her. He kept thinking of what his brother had said during their duel.

_ Do it, then. Kill me. _ To most people it would have sounded proud; defiant; fearless, but Genji had spent his childhood learning to listen for meaning behind Hanzo’s words. There was something dark and familiar in his brother’s voice. Genji wanted - needed - to stay by Hanzo’s side.

_ If he’ll let you. _

Genji sighed and moved his hands down to his sides, smiling sadly. “We are finished. Do you like it?”

Tracer chewed her lip, looking at his face in the mirror before looking at herself. She turned at a few angles. “It's…”

She didn't finish her sentence. That made Genji nervous.

“You don't like it.”

“No, I  _ love _ it,” she cried enthusiastically. “I feel like I bugged you about every step but I still don’t know how you did it.”

“Heh.” Genji shrugged, a futile attempt to look humble considering his self-satisfied smile. “It was simple.”

“I can tell I'm wearing something but I don't look-” Tracer scrunched her face up, thinking, “I dunno, like my  _ grandma _ .”

That made him laugh. “Why  _ would  _ you?”

“It’s just, when my gran wears makeup it's all too much.” Tracer waved her hand in front of her face. “Blue eyeshadow and red blush and big, scraggly lashes. I don't look, em, ladylike, I guess? But in a good way.”

Genji smirked behind her, both of them looking at her in the mirror as she made faces at herself. He heard Tracer’s phone buzz in a pocket. At the same time, he got a notification from his synthetic brain. Tracer pawed for her phone.

“It’s Dr. Ziegler,” Genji informed her, “She wants us to go.”

Tracer checked her phone anyway. “Yeah, alright.” She stood up out of the chair and made a show of straightening her suit jacket, smirking at him. “Took you long enough, Mr. Shimada,” she teased. “Let’s get to it, already!”

Genji grinned, walking back out to the bedroom to retrieve his visor. “Mr. Shimada? I think I like that.”

He caught the tail end of a disappointed look from Tracer after putting his visor on. She opened the door and held it for him. “I thought you’d say-” Here, she lowered her voice in mockery, “‘Mr. Shimada was my father.’” He walked to the door laughing, going out into the hallway. Tracer walked at his shoulder, and they exchanged jokes the whole way down to the main hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For people reading the full Omnic Crisis story chronologically, just continue on to the next chapter (:
> 
> I like how Genji has all these ~ideas~ when we know the boy is too nervous about his cyborg bod to follow through. 
> 
> I know this chapter is short, but believe me, friends, it killed me to move the second part to the next week far more. I have been waiting to write the chapter that comes next for months. I'm so, so excited for you guys to read it. 
> 
> If I'd really wanted to keep the schedule, I could have cut this scene, but honestly, I just loved it so much I couldn't bring myself to. They're at a weird phase in the relationship right now, and I wanted just a sweet, fluffy scene that shows how well they get along and how their unsure status is affecting them.  
> (Genji still should have texted back though)
> 
> As always, thank you all so much for reading and commenting! Reading your comments brightens my day every time ^_^ See you next week!


	14. The Viper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, welcome back to Time Machine! You lucky ducks get two chapters in a row this week.  
> I am, so, so _so_ excited for you guys to read the chapter this week. I've been waiting to write it for weeks, and I thought that would make it easy. Boy, I was wrong! I had to reign myself in a lot. But I think it's better for it! Why am I so excited for this chapter? Well, you'll see...
> 
> I am streaming tonight, 9:30PM EST! Probably playing a lot of the brawl (: Come join! https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher  
> Special thanks to milfordb and Jae for helping me make necessary cuts. I think the chapter is much better for them ^_^ Also to Doc for helping me with a lot of the cultural aspects. 
> 
> I didn't have time to do one last read of this, and there were a lot of edits and cuts, so if you see something weird please leave a comment!
> 
> Song of the Chapter: "Black Sheep" by Gin Wigmore

 

Genji kept watching the door.

It was a tiny portal to a huge space, open to the air, but closed off to people by bored, hulking doorman. Every person they admitted made Genji’s throat tighten up.

_ Would Hanzo come tonight?  _ Looking around  _ Club Cerisier _ , Genji realized he might not have picked the most ideal place to invite him to. Genji couldn’t remember ever seeing his brother step foot in here.  

Different places in Hanamura lived as different times in Genji’s memory. Rikimaru was the late mornings, the taste and scent of the broth and the texture of the noodles as close as the ache of a hangover. 

Afternoons were 8-bit hero, his ass numb from being parked on a seat for hours, a pain in his wrist or a blister on his thumb. The taste of the bottled green tea they sold in the vending machine. 

Twilight, the in-between time, was the dojo in Shimada Castle, the crawling feel of sweat down his forehead, his father’s winded questions about Genji’s exploits around the village. Ryoma’s deep voice warm when Genji mentioned the right things: girls, bikes, Hanamura’s shops, spending time with Hanzo. Cold, when he said the wrong things: clothes, drugs, modern revenue sources, Keiko, fighting with Hanzo, anyone who wasn’t a girl. 

Every part of his day had geography, and all of it centered on this single city block. The night belonged to  _ Club Cerisier _ . 

The club was like a warehouse, two stories tall with a high ceiling, decorated with swaths of petal-pink cloth, colored spotlights, and metal rigging. Right of the entrance, a prominent staircase coiled up to a landing for VIPs, with its own bar and wait staff. Wood with a dark, rich stain decorated the walls and bars. A mirror ball scattered petals of pink light across the vast dance floor. 

Straight ahead was the DJ booth, a tall, thin podium overlooking the floor. It was surrounded by other platforms of varying heights, where hired models or exuberant patrons could climb up and dance elevated above the rest. They were caged, only on the three sides that faced the dance floor. The bars were fashioned to look like branches. They’d remodeled since Genji had been here last, but the steady bass was the same: the heartbeat of Hanamura. 

Tracer and Mercy were having a cool conversation off to the side. Despite her myriad protests about this get-together, Mercy had taken the time to look lovely. She’d let her long, pale hair down and donned a cream-colored dress with tiny daffodils embroidered at the hem. Mercy always looked put-together, but it was rare to see her dressed up. Even that, she made look effortless. 

“Shame Winston couldn't come,” McCree told Genji. They were both leaning against the wall a few feet away, under a lit exit sign.

“Wouldn't,” Genji said. “Ms. Oxton made an attempt, but we both knew it was unlikely he would join us. He does not go out much. It has been this way since we all trained together.”

McCree hummed. “Because of the whole ‘gets nervous ’round strangers’ thing?”

“I think it is more the ‘other talking gorillas killed everyone on the moon’ thing, but… yes, that too.”

McCree smirked at him around his cigar. “Where’s that cousin of yours?”

“She never arrives before eleven.” Genji realized, after a few seconds of silence, that he was staring at the entryway again. “You invited him, right?”

“Who?”

“Hanzo.”

McCree’s voice flattened. “Surely did.”

“And you told him where we’d be, right? And the time?”

“Might have been light on the details.”

Genji folded his arms. “How light?”

“Said the club, today. There ain’t no other club ‘round here, and ain’t no other time you come to a club, ‘cept at night.”

“He could have come earlier,” Genji huffed. “Hanzo doesn’t really know ‘club etiquette’.”

“He’s been tailing you for a week.” McCree’s chest expanded and the cherry of his cigar flare up. The next words he said were smoke. “You think, since that duel of yours, there’s a place you gone he don’t know about?”

Genji looked down at his feet, then back up towards the door. “When you talked to him, how did he seem to you?”

“Like an asshole,” he said.

Genji laughed despite himself. “I mean, did it sound like he would come?” He paused, then added, “Did… he seem alright to you?”

There were a few heavy bass beats and a drag from the cigar before McCree answered him. “Hard to tell.” 

“You don’t like him, do you?” Genji looked back at the door.

“Nope,” he said. 

“Do you think I am doing the right thing?”

“Huh?”

“With Hanzo, and Keiko. Am I right to stay here and try to mend things with them? Or should I move on and go back to Overwatch?”

McCree adjusted his hat on his brow and put his big hand on Genji’s shoulder. The sleeves of his plaid shirt were rolled up to his elbows - it reminded Genji of Keiko, her rainbow of silk dress shirts, shoved up to bare her tattooed forearms, grinning at him with warm empathy. A close friend.

“That’s a big, bad question, Genji,” McCree said. “Ain’t one you need to rush to answer.”

“I wish my master was here. He would know what to do.”

“You tried callin’ him lately?”

“Each day, twice or more. Nothing.”

“Might be pushin’ you outta’ the nest.”

“If he believes that is best, but… I wish he would at least answer.” Genji looked down at the floor, then at the door, then over at Tracer and Dr. Ziegler. 

McCree leaned in. “How about Ms. Tracer in that suit?”

“Ah-h,” Genji drawled, rolling his head back against the wall. 

McCree chuckled. “Still sweet on her, huh?”

“You could say that,” Genji sighed.

When McCree didn’t answer right away, Genji turned to look at him. The cowboy’s unkempt eyebrows were near to his hairline. 

“I could  _ say _ that?” McCree’s body was turned to face him now, engaged, interested. 

“You have not spoken with Dr. Ziegler?” Genji was sure she would have spilled it to him. 

“No! What-”

Some kind of commotion was kicking up at the entrance. Genji felt his muscles clench, standing on tip-toe, trying to catch a glimpse past the throng of patrons out on the dance floor. He reached for his wakazashi, then cursed when he realized he’d been forced to leave it at the door. He stalked up behind one of the rubbernecking dancers.

“What is happening?” he asked over her shoulder. She spun around, and didn’t look any less startled when she saw his visored face.

“The head of the Shimada Clan is here,” she said, then wet her throat. 

Genji shouldered his way through the crowd, leaving McCree, Mercy, and Tracer behind. The crowd peeled back as he pushed through, until he met a wall of meaty Shimada enforcers. Between their blocky shoulders, Genji caught a flash of a dark head, greying at the temples. One huge, bald yakuza looked over his sunglasses at Genji. Without a word, he stepped to the side. 

At over six feet, she matched in height if not in breadth with the huge enforcers. Her slicked-back hair, her gaunt frame, her hooked nose and sharp chin, all made her look chiseled out - not pretty enough to be finished. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, scandalously showing off a tattoo of a worming, spitting viper. Genji saw her eyes catch on him. She turned, stuffed one hand in a pocket, and grinned a jagged razor of a grin.

“Ah, who let this freak in here?” The question was a cheeky, drawn-out hiss.

Genji smirked at her behind his helmet. “Hello, Keiko.”

His cousin hissed out a breath and stuck out the body part that had earned her the nickname “The Viper”: her freakishly-long, pointed tongue. 

“The two Shimada disappointments, back together again.” Keiko hooked an arm around his neck and hugged him.

It was short and almost masculine, but felt good - another bit of nostalgic contact that he hadn’t realized was missing in Nepal. Genji stepped back and presented himself. “I even wore clothes, like a real person.”

Keiko leaned back and nodded. “You look good, Cousin. Better than running around with your ass out.”

“Yes, because you have never seen my ass before,” Genji joked back. “Remember that time I wanted to go swimming so we broke into the community center at three in the morning?”

“Best drunk idea you ever had.” Keiko peeled back her lips to show her teeth. “Which reminds me, we need a waitress.” Keiko scanned the club floor until she caught sight of a girl with red hair in the club’s pink uniform. “OY! You! With your tits to your chin -  I’m rich, c’mere!”

“Alright, calm down, Cousin,” Genji scolded, elbowing her.

“What?”

“She has a name.”

“Yeah, it’s Naito… Miki, I think.”

“And what’s wrong with calling her Naito then?”

“Naito needs a better bra, that’s what.”

“At least she  _ wears  _ a bra,” Genji shot back, nodding at Keiko’s plum dress shirt, unbuttoned to her solar plexus.

Keiko rolled her eyes and pulled one side of the shirt open, revealing her small, tattooed breast. 

Genji was unimpressed. “Is that your impression of Hanzo? Come on, put that chopping board away.”

Keiko laughed through a drag of her cigarette. It felt good to joke with her like this - he’d been at Shimada Castle for a week and a half, but had seen very little of his cousin in that time. She went to closed-door meetings, brokered with what looked like dealers, even read(well, skimmed) reports. Genji wondered if, against all odds, Keiko was actually taking her place at the head of the family halfway seriously. 

The waitress, push-up bra Naito Miki, approached Keiko who flashed bedroom eyes at her. “A bottle of Yamazaki, babe. The eighteen, not the twelve, I’m not a peasant. Azza _ su _ .” Keiko drawled out the last syllable as she slid a bill onto the girl’s tray. 

Miki didn’t even blink at the amount. “I’ll bring it up to the usual table, Shimada-san.” She peered at Genji, and this time, she blinked. “How many glasses should I bring?”

The back of Genji’s neck prickled and his sensors reported someone approaching behind him.

“Four,” crooned McCree’s smooth voice at his back. Genji relaxed.

“Five!” Tracer corrected, blinking up beside him. “Your brother’s coming too, yeah?”

“Mm,” Genji said, sparing another look at the door. Tracer bumped him with her hip. Her smile distracted him - among other things.   
They waited for Mercy, who had stopped in the restroom to touch up her lipstick, then Keiko lead them up the club’s spiral staircase to the VIP balcony. The six syndicate enforcers - Keiko’s bodyguards - were in tow, stopping at the top of the stairs, then spreading out with dull, practiced efficiency. 

Keiko nodded them over to a corner booth that overlooked the dance floor. The table had a tiny, folded sign that read “reserved.” Keiko picked the sign up and tossed it over the balcony. “I tried to tell ‘em to stay home,” Keiko muttered, nodding to the enforcers. Genji spied their waitress, push-up bra Miki, muscling through them, carrying the bottle of whisky Keiko had ordered.

“Want to duck them?” Genji suggested, leaning into her shoulder, whispering like he always used to when hatching some outlandish scheme with her. 

Keiko cocked her head at him for a moment, with an expression Genji couldn’t read. As soon as it had appeared, it was gone, and she shrugged. “We could take that bottle, go up to the roof, get trashed and fuck girls like we used to.”

Genji tsked. “Since when did you like going up on the roof? And besides, I can not do that anymore.”

Keiko raised both of her pointed, black eyebrows and looked at Genji’s crotch. Putting an arm around his neck, she said, “Ah, cousin. Take it from me - you don’t need a dick to fuck girls.”

Genji laughed. Push-up bra Miki got to the booth and started transferring the contents of her tray - the bottle, the mixers, the five glasses - to the table. “I mean,” Genji said, “that I can not drink anymore.”

“ _ What? _ ” Keiko grabbed the bottle off the table and threw it hard against the wall. The thick glass shattered, and the harsh smell of the alcohol flooded into Genji’s nostrils. 

“That’s just wasteful,” Tracer quipped, sneaking by and scuttling into the middle of the booth. 

Miki put her hand on her hip, looking bored. “You want another one of those, Shimada-san?”

Keiko swept back her dark hair and rolled her shoulder. “Yeah,” she huffed, “And if Funaki tries to take it out of your paycheck again, tell him he’ll have to take my shoe out of his asshole, got it?”

“Aw, you’re so sweet,” Miki said sarcastically before sauntering away.

Mercy and McCree had joined Tracer in the booth by now. Genji folded his arms across his chest, noticing that Mercy and McCree had both stacked up on Tracer’s left, leaving a spot next to her open. He hummed, defeated, and slid across the booth’s pink, reflective vinyl so he was next to Tracer.

Even in the dim club lights, her smile lit up her face. It brought up memories of New York, of the night he spent in her room. Part of him still regretted stopping things when he did. Being back in  _ Club Cerisier _ with Keiko made him remember a time when he had no such reservations. He wanted her again, but unlike his youth, Genji had a harder time ignoring Tracer’s end of the bargain. What would happen if he didn’t join Overwatch with her, and instead stayed here with Keiko and Hanzo? Would it break her heart?

Would it break his?

Genji finally tore his eyes away from Tracer’s, face warm under his visor. He thought, briefly, of taking it off - only Keiko and McCree had not seen him without it. It was still unnerving, but if he had to pick the next two people on the list…

Then he remembered where they were, remembered the enforcers and push-up bra Miki, and banished the idea. 

Keiko fell down into the seat beside him, an empty glass already in front of her. He had one as well, as did Tracer, Mercy, and McCree. There was one more left, at the other end of the half-moon booth, next to McCree and across the table from Keiko. A glass for someone who wasn’t there. Genji looked over his shoulder through the bars of the balustrade, staring again at the door. 

_ Getting late. _

“Hey!” Keiko snapped her fingers in Genji’s face. “My tits are up here.”

“What tits?” Genji’s almost perfunctory barb earned him a cackle from his cousin. “I’m looking for Hanzo.”

Mercy huffed air through her upturned nose. “Forgive me, but…  _ why? _ ”

Keiko cackled, lounging back. “Well, he does have the best rack in the family.”

“That’s about  _ all  _ he’s got goin’ for him,” McCree crooned, sneering.

“Be nice,” Tracer protested. “Hanzo is Genji’s guest, after all.”

McCree tilted his head. “You punched him in the face, Ms. Tracer.”

“You punched  _ Hanzo  _ in the  _ face _ ?” Keiko slammed her hands on the table, making the glasses tinkle like bells.

As Tracer was explaining to Keiko the etymology of every british swear-word she’d called Hanzo, push-up bra Miki brought up the replacement bottle. McCree reached for it before it was even on the table, but Keiko slapped his hand away.

“Don’t pour your own drink!” Keiko said, offended. She nodded to Miki. “We’re going to have a beautiful woman pour them for us, like civilized people.”

Miki rolled her eyes. “This isn’t a host bar, Shimada-san,” she quipped, even as she unscrewed the cap. 

“Of course it isn’t,” Keiko purred, dumping some ice in her own glass,    
“I don’t need to pay for girl’s attention.”

Miki pouted at Keiko. Her lips matched the shiny vinyl of the booth. “When you  _ tip  _ me, it suggests otherwise.” She poured the whisky over the ice in Keiko’s glass. 

_ Straight, rocks. Some things never change, _ Genji thought. He wondered if she still drank that disgusting Habushu concoction as well. 

Keiko looked up under her brows at Naito Miki. “Just say the word, To-chan,” Keiko purred, opening her mouth and licking one of her canines. “I’ll give you more than just the tip.”

Push-up bra Miki smirked down at Keiko, then made a show of leaning forward, pushing her breasts together to create an impressive line of cleavage. Genji found it amusing, but he caught Tracer staring. He felt a little twinge of jealousy. His hand crept overtop hers, threading their fingers and avoiding the look he knew Tracer was giving him. 

Keiko leaned in, raising her eyebrows, waiting for an answer. Miki tilted her head, then held a hand out, palm up. “I’ll take the money, thanks.”

“Hohoho,” McCree chuckled. Keiko fell back in her seat and clutched her heart like she’d just been shot. Defeated, she slapped money into Miki’s open hand. Miki laughed and pocketed it before moving on to pour the rest of their drinks. McCree took his neat, and Tracer wanted hers mixed with cola. Mercy declined, as did Genji, which brought another bout of ire from Keiko.

“I can’t believe I’ll never see drunk Genji again,” she lamented. “What asshole is responsible for this?”

“That’d be Angie,” McCree said, grinning around his cigar.

Mercy shot him a dirty look, then turned to address Keiko. “I was the head of a team that rebuilt him, yes. I worked with a top cybernetics expert as well, Dr. Liao.”

Keiko looked at her askance. “How’d you even  _ find  _ him to fix him up?” 

“I wondered about that too,” Tracer said, turning to him. “I don’t mean to bring up bad stuff, luv, but... so much had to be replaced, how is it you survived at all?” 

Genji looked down at his glass. “You will have to ask Dr. Ziegler. I do not remember much from that night after…”

_ After. _

Tracer squeezed his hand like an apology. The warmth and pressure was a comfort. 

“We don’t have to talk about this, Genji,” Mercy said. 

He clutched Tracer’s hand under the table, like an anchor. “It’s alright. I want Keiko to know.” 

Mercy nodded, swallowing. “The caduceus technology, in part,” she said. “In part, it was timing. I was assisting Blackwatch on a covert mission at the castle, after Shimada Ryoma passed away. McCree was with me, along with a man named Gabriel Reyes. We were there for… the fight.”

At his shoulder, Genji felt Keiko muscles tighten like a snake readying to strike. She raised her voice. “What, and you just  _ let  _ it happen?”

“Families fight,” McCree said, firmly. “Ninja families fight with swords. We didn’t think Hanzo would actually…”

“...until it was too late,” Mercy finished. She tilted her head, slightly, away. 

Keiko leveled a glare at them, then deflated. “Makes three of us then, I guess.” 

It was an uncommon show of emotion from his cousin, usually cavalier through broken bones and breakups. Something hideous, that Genji had never considered, flashed in his mind. “Did he do anything to you… after?”

Keiki tsk’d through her teeth. “Nah. Did it to myself.” She reached her hand up, scratching an angry scar on her lip with her tattooed stub of a pinky.

_ Hanzo was the one who made her perform the  _ yubitsume _. _ It couldn’t have been anyone else, Genji realized, but the idea that Keiko would willingly make such a sacrifice to stay in the family’s graces seemed entirely out-of-character. 

Keiko wouldn’t look at him as she fired up another cigarette. Was she ashamed? “So you were there, I can buy that,” she said, taking the first drag, “but I still don’t see how you got him back to your lab. I mean, like, there was a _body_. We had a _funeral_.”  
“That was some syndicate thug we took out on the infiltration,” McCree said. “Reyes stripped him, put Genji’s clothes on him, smashed his face in so it weren’t recognizable. We were just hoping for a clean getaway. Couldn’t believe you never verified the ID.”

“Yeah, I think Kanata wanted to,” Keiko said, “but Hanzo wouldn’t let anyone mess with the body.” 

Genji shifted at the mention of Kanata’s name. Keiko had hated her mother for as long as Genji could remember, and after the first few hospital visits, Genji had learned to hate Kanata too. But sometime during Genji and Keiko’s exploits in the neighborhoods of Hanamura, the  _ Yamata no Orochi _ had slithered her way into his brother’s ear. It was surprising to hear that Hanzo had disallowed something Kanata asked for instead of rolling over for her like a dog. Genji looked to the door again. It was almost midnight. 

Keiko slammed her open palm down on the table. “Alright, that’s enough serious talk. You, lightbulb tits-” Keiko was talking to Tracer, “-you fuckin’ my cousin?”

It was a straight-spined, red-faced moment before either of them answered.

“W-what would make you say that, luv?” Tracer asked.

Keiko clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Maybe because you’ve been holding hands under the table for half an hour.”

Genji watched McCree’s jaw drop as the warmth of Tracer’s hand shot away from his. 

McCree whooped in victory. “Alright, Genji and Ms. Tracer!” He elbowed Mercy. “You know about this, Angie?”

Mercy smiled a tiny, purse-lipped, knowing smile. “I may have,” she said, smugly.

Genji tried to summon his master’s zen will. It was bad enough when it was just Mercy. “No, we are not  _ ‘fucking’ _ .”

“No?” Keiko drew the word out, like she didn’t believe him. She turned to Tracer. “What’s the matter, not into ‘bot dick?”

McCree snorted, and Tracer laughed in disbelief, face covered, ears pink. Genji backhanded Keiko’s shoulder. “ _ Really _ ?”

“What?” Keiko feigned innocence, then turned to Mercy. “I mean, that’s accurate, right? The dick didn’t make it.”

Mercy took a deep breath, trying to stay serene between Tracer and McCree, who were both stifling giggles. “In general,” she said, “we tried to preserve as much of his original body as was possible.”

“That’s a yes,” Keiko said, slapping the table with an open palm. “Did you upgrade that shit? Like, with features? Oh, I bet you did. Did you add a rabbit?” Keiko made a little motion, like quotation marks, with the first two fingers on one hand. Then, excitedly, “Does it  _ vibrate _ ?” Keiko looked to Tracer. “I mean, I’m not into guys but even  _ I _ would be impressed by that.”

Genji’s shoulders shook, his face in his hand. “Could we stop talking about my dick?”

“Look, I’m just saying-” Keiko put her hands on either of Genji’s shoulders and turned him to face Tracer, presenting him, “-that my cousin’s a real catch, y’know? Master swordsman. Global hero. Totally into… inner peace, or whatever. And I can’t emphasize enough,  _ vibrating dick. _ ” Keiko held her palms up, facing each other, about as wide as her shoulders, as if to suggest  _ other  _ specifications.

Genji grabbed her by the lapel of her jacket. “Keiko. Do you want me to bring up Usami? Because I will bring up Usami.”

Keiko’s baggy eyes went big, She half stood up and pointed at him. “ _ Never _ bring up Usami.”

“Are you sure? Because there’s a lot I can bring up. The letter. The karaoke bar.  _ The miko uniform. _ ”

Keiko stood frozen, finger pointing and neck flushing red. She swallowed, then said, “I gotta piss.” Genji threw his head back, laughing, as Keiko slid out of the booth. “Get me my usual,” she said, then added, “ _ Don’t _ bring up Usami.” Keiko straightened her suit jacket, then headed down the stairs, a pair of sisters breaking wordlessly from the entourage and following after her. 

“So are you going to bring up Usami?” Tracer wheedled.

Genji chuckled. “Look, I have already had one family member try to kill me.” He peered over his shoulder and picked his cousin out of the crowd below, then spared a glance towards the door. 12:13AM.

“So,” Mercy said with a searching tone, “you and Hanzo, reunited?”

Genji shifted, turning back to face the group. “Not exactly,” he said. He spied push-up bra Miki and waved her over. “Habushu and tequila, top shelf, rocks, a splash of soda. And a lime.” 

Miki stuck her pink tongue out at him. “Figured she’d get one of those eventually. I have to say, it’s a nice surprise to see her here with other people for once. Usually it’s just these meatheads,” Miki thumbed back at the enforcers, “and whatever girls she can scam up here with free drinks. Seems kind of lonely.” 

That’s a big, bad question, Genji thought. He said, “You may see more of me here in the future.” He felt Tracer shift against his shoulder.

“Good,” Miki chirped, giving him a real smile instead of a coquettish pout. “I’ll go get her drink.”

When Miki was gone, Mercy pressed Genji. “What do you mean, not exactly?”

“He has not spoken to me since our duel,” Genji said.

“But he ain’t left either,” McCree added. “Just stalks around the castle.”

Genji stared down at his glass, clean and empty. “He was invited here tonight, but did not come.”

“Perhaps that is better,” Mercy said. “Any man that could do what he did to you, Genji… I do not think him worth your efforts.”

Tracer jumped in. “Hanzo’s a real git, yeah, but they’re still family.”

Genji looked at the empty glass next to McCree. 

“I don’t much care for him m’self,” the cowboy said. “But it ain’t for me to decide. If you want Hanzo back in your life, Genji, we’re behind you, and same goes if you don’t.”

Genji opened his mouth to answer when Keiko’s voice, loud and shrill, rang out in the club, even over the thumping music. “Well fuck me in half! Look who decided to show up.”

Genji spun around, scanning the club until he spied Keiko pushing her way through the crowd, her bodyguards fighting to keep up. She was heading towards the door. Genji looked - then sucked in a breath. “He’s here.”

The rest of the table were looking down as well. Keiko and Hanzo had a brief, and by the look on Hanzo’s face, likely unpleasant conversation. Keiko pointed up at the balcony. Genji stood as Hanzo looked up. They locked eyes, and Hanzo brushed past Keiko and headed for the stairs. Genji moved out of the booth to meet him.

Hanzo looked much as he had during their duel a week and a half ago. He had a precise, short-cropped beard that still looked awkward to Genji, who remembered him clean-shaven. A tuft of hair was pulled back with a golden scarf that matched Genji’s once silver, now grey and frayed one. Hanzo looked displeased, but then, he always did. The right side of his chin was blue and swollen. Though clean, Hanzo was wearing the same uniform from their duel as well, though he’d pulled the other sleeve on. 

Genji took a few wary steps forward. “Thank you for coming-” he hesitated before adding, “-brother.” 

Hanzo said nothing, only followed him to the table and slid into the booth beside McCree, who seemed none too happy about it. He gave Hanzo a cool greeting, then poured himself another glass of whisky. Mercy had put on a flat, prim expression. 

Tracer broke the thick silence. “Em… H-hello, Hanzo.”

Hanzo turned towards her. “Greetings,” he said from between his teeth. 

“Ah, brother, this is Lena Oxton.”

Hanzo upturned the bruised side of his chin. “We have met.”

Tracer’s brows went together, and she looked ready to quip back at him when McCree cut her off. 

“Say, ladies. Seein’ as we’re in a dance hall, I’ve a mind to shake out the old spurs. You two care to join me?”

Mercy and Tracer shot McCree a puzzled glance. It was almost imperceptible, but Genji caught McCree nodding slightly towards him and Hanzo. Mercy’s mouth opened then shut, then she said “O-Of course, Jesse.” It was an awkward falsetto. She grabbed Tracer’s arm like a vice.

Hanzo stood, letting McCree, Mercy and Tracer shuffle out. Tracer shot Genji one last worried look as Mercy dragged her down the stairs. Hanzo sat back down in the booth, across from him.

Another silence, the club’s music thudding in Genji’s synthetic ears. He could still smell the alcohol from the bottle Keiko smashed earlier. Hanzo lifted his chin to look out at the floor, and Genji turned to look as well. McCree, Mercy, and Tracer had met up with Keiko down below and they were all shimmying onto the dance floor. Genji smiled.

“I cannot believe they made the Viper head of the family,” Hanzo huffed, watching them. 

“She did not let it change her a bit,” Genji chuckled. 

Another silence. “You do not engage in such frivolities?”

Genji smiled under the mask. “I used to, believe me. I would be out there with them if not for…” Genji let his voice trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence. In a way, they both knew how the sentence ended anyway. 

“You should,” Hanzo said.

That surprised him. Genji tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” Hanzo was still staring down at the dance floor. 

_ Looking at anything but me, _ Genji realized. “Why did you come?” 

Hanzo looked from the balcony to the bottle of Yamazaki. “You requested I be here.” He unscrewed the bottle’s cap. 

“A request means you can refuse,” Genji said.

Hanzo poured himself a drink instead of answering.

“You do not want to talk to me.” Genji realized it as he said it.

Hanzo looked down at the amber liquid in the glass, then took a long drink.

That pissed him off. Genji got to his feet. “I am going to go  _ engage in frivolities _ . Unless you plan to kick me off a balcony for it again.” 

It wasn’t fair, but Genji had been pushing down his anger for days, even weeks. Actually  _ talking  _ to Hanzo made suppressing it significantly harder. 

“Genji, do not-”

“Come on, there is one right here. It would be easy. Take out Keiko while you are at it, and Lena, and McCree and Dr. Ziegler. Hell, why don’t you call up the dragons, just to see how many people in here are your enemies.”

Hanzo stood, shoulders back, chest puffed out. Asserting his dominance. It was so familiar.  _ You need to fall back in line, _ it said.  _ You need to do as I say, even if it hurts the people you care about. _ It made Genji  _ so  _ angry. 

“They  _ all  _ are,” Hanzo said.

“No, they’re  _ not _ ,” Genji shot back. “Why do you do this? Why do you get on your knees for the bad guys, then  _ step on _ everyone that actually gives a shit about you?”

Hanzo laughed without humor. “Who does? Keiko? She would kill me as soon as breath, if she  _ could _ . And those… friends of yours. They look at me as if I am the dirt beneath their shoes.”

“Can you not understand  _ why? _ ”

“I understand more than you could ever know,” Hanzo said. “I gave up everything I worked for. My life, my home, my legacy - as if it could undo what I had done.”

“I am  _ here _ , Hanzo,” Genji said, pleading and frustrated. “I know I am not… not the same as you remember, but it’s  _ me _ .”

Hanzo looked down at Genji’s mechanical hands, then up, to his visored face. “No. It is not.” His brother sank down into the booth again, leaning his face in his hand and picking up his glass. “Go, Genji. Be… frivolous.” It wasn’t cruel. It was almost warm.  _ Join your real family, _ it said.  _ You will be happier without me. _ It wasn’t words, like that; more a feeling he got when Hanzo spoke, from years of reading between the lines where his brother was concerned. It should have felt clumsy, but it came back  _ so _ naturally.

“Come down with me,” Genji suggested, gently.

Hanzo stared into his drink. “No.”  _ I do not belong with them,  _ his voice said. _ I deserve to be alone.  _ Just then, Miki arrived with Keiko’s drink, looking warily between the two before Genji waved her to approach.

“I am going to take this down to Keiko,” Genji said as Miki walked away. “Stay here, have the bottle. Keiko won’t mind.” Genji put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. “I will be back soon.” Genji paused, then headed to the stairs, leaving his brother alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For people reading the full Omnic Crisis story chronologically, the next chapter is [May I, Chapter Four: Dead or Alive](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7991308/chapters/19093180). 
> 
> Meet Keiko, guys 8))) She's become my standout favorite character of this fic, though, I don't think many people will like her besides me haha. All my beta-readers advised me to tone her down, so if it feels like she dominates this chapter, trust me, it used to be WAY worse lol.  
> I've talked about her SO much that there's already art of her from the super-awesome Chiptooth! [Check it out](http://the-original-chiptooth.tumblr.com/post/151738822795/a-quick-sketch-for-my-good-buddy-azuka-bladefury%0A), I love how he draws her :DD  
> I also [drew a picture of her myself](http://azuka-bladefury.tumblr.com/post/148958653872/keiko-an-oc-from-my-overwatch-fic-time-machine), and you'll probably see many more from me:  
> Much love to all my readers! Sorry again for the late chapter ^^;;; but now, streaming time!  
> https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher


	15. Here and Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, welcome back to Time Machine!
> 
>  **Warning: Sexual content in this chapter.** *waggles eyebrows* I did my best to keep it M? If anything strays into E let me know in the comments X:
> 
> No stream this week! I have a farewell party to go to :( Damn you california, stealing my friends away ):
> 
> Much love to my beta readers, and all of your for still reading and leaving comments, they are food for my soul <333
> 
> Song of the chapter: [Love Sick by Sleigh Bells](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xkb0h4qinZo)

Last call chased them out into Hanamura’s streets, and to Genji’s surprise, both Mercy and Hanzo had stayed until the end.

Tracer was up ahead of him. Her lanky legs swung in the air as she yelled out some old punk song, blinking back and forth. It made it hard to track her, to keep his eyes on her. Small and fast and way out in front of him, there one moment and then gone. 

Genji wasn’t so much holding Keiko up as aiming her in the right direction. She leaned and weaved with each step like an albatross. 

McCree, behind him, thrummed, “Keep up, Shimada.”

A blue streak, Tracer flew from ahead to behind him. Genji turned, watching her barrel into McCree’s elbow, tugging him into a stumble. “Yeah! Keep up Shimada!” Genji looked from the pair of them, to his brother, who had stopped in the middle of the dimly-lit street.

“I need to leave,” Hanzo said. 

Genji tensed. In his pocket, three cellophane-wrapped, mint-flavored candies danced with his fingers. They were the peace offering he’d pocketed before leaving for the club that, in anger, he’d forgotten to give to his brother. Zenyatta would be ashamed of him. 

Tracer protested before Genji had a chance to.  _ “Leave?” _ Her disappointment touched him as much as the bruise on Hanzo’s chin did, but in opposing ways. Genji steered Keiko around, and they walked to Tracer’s shoulder. This close, Genji had an urge to slip a hand around her waist and pull her to him.

Hanzo’s back straightened, the movement more familiar than his brother’s weather-beaten, bearded face. “Yes. I do not have a place to stay. I must go.” Hanzo caught Genji’s eye, then looked away. “I meant to leave earlier.”

Beside him, Keiko cut in, booze making her lisp worse. “Just stay at the damn castle, Hanzo. You're there sneaking around all the time anyway.”

It was a pleasant surprise. Genji agreed before Keiko could take it back. “Yes, you should stay at the castle with us.”

Hanzo still seemed reticent. McCree looked over his shoulder at Genji, then turned back to Hanzo. “One night,” he drawled. “Then you can leave in the mornin’, when you're up to it.”

“Storm bow is there…” Hanzo nodded up at the roof of Rikimaru.

“I’ll get it!” Genji slipped out from under Keiko’s arm, brushing past Tracer. He walked past Hanzo and momentarily clutched his shoulder, trying to smile with actions instead of with his visored face. Then, he scaled up the side of the building. 

His systems whirred, kicking in a bit more power as he hoisted himself up onto the roof. He turned and walked to the edge until his mechanical toes peeked out over the side. Hanzo was staring up at him. There was an unhindered breeze up above the building, and Genji’s scarf, tattered and tarnished, brushed his shoulder. 

“Go on ahead,” he called down. “I’ll bring it back to the castle.”

Tracer waved to him, then the group turned and walked in the direction of Shimada Castle. Mercy moved up beside McCree, helping him keep his chain-gang gait even through his neat-whisky haze. Tracer popped around, incalculable. 

Weaving up in the lead, Keiko. In the back, Hanzo. 

_Eating its own tail._ _  
_ Genji watched them until they were out of sight.

It was a few minutes before Genji found Storm Bow glinting like a sapphire under a whirring electrical box. The lacquered wood clicked under his mechanical fingers. It had been a family heirloom - Genji wasn’t sure if it had been left to Hanzo by a dead relative, or just been unquestionably given to him due to his high skill in archery. A gift, perhaps, from their father; Genji couldn’t remember a time Hanzo didn’t carry it. It was solidly made, but old; both strong and fragile. He took it up with care.

There was a wrapped bundle under the electrical box as well that, from the fine fabric, Genji knew must be Hanzo’s as well. He had to flatten himself to reach under the box and grab it, loosening the knot that held it together in the process. He plucked at it for a few moments, curious, then a text popped up. 

  
  


> **Keiko**
> 
> 2:52 AM
> 
> That Tracer girl is in the guest room on the third floor, last door on the left. 

 

_ Still my wingman, _ Genji thought, smirking. He paused, then tugged the bundle open. 

It smelled like soap. There were a few utilitarian objects for grooming, like a toothbrush, floss, a razor, and a comb. A tightly-folded change of clothes wrapped in twine like a package. Matches. Needle and thread. A flashlight. Assorted bandages. The whole thing was wrapped in a spare kyudo-gi.

It was all utility. No creature-comforts, no keepsakes. It was a maintenance kit for a human being. The tiny objects scattered across the wrinkled gi reminded Genji of a destroyed Numbani hotel room. An old stiffness, perhaps real or perhaps imagined, returned to Genji’s shoulder. Unconsciously, he opened his texts from Tracer. 

 

> **Oxton**
> 
> 5/5/76 21:20
> 
> GENJ!!!
> 
> DID U JUST GET THE RECALL???
> 
>  
> 
> 5/5/76 21:34
> 
> I JUST TALKED TO WINSTON HE DID IT THE ABSOLUTE MADMAN!!
> 
>  
> 
> 5/5/76 21:48
> 
> OMG GENJ EVERYBODY’S CALLING IN IM GONNA CRY
> 
>  
> 
> 5/5/76 22:05
> 
> R U SEEING THIS?? Winston said u were on the list he saw u were in japan
> 
>  
> 
> 5/5/76 22:14
> 
> Genji??

 

He read through the text history while he looked down at Hanzo’s things. A water bottle with a chipped teacup rubber-banded to the top. The crisp lines of Tracer’s suit.  A fish hook and bobber. The feel of her fluttering eyelashes as he painted her face. A knife. Her warm hand in his. The smooth wrappers of the candies in his pocket. 

He yearned for it all in an insubstantial way - like Tracer far ahead of him in the street, it snapped around in different directions. He couldn’t track it. He scrolled up on the texts.

> **Oxton**
> 
> 5/5/76 14:58
> 
> Is it weird to b back home???
> 
>  
> 
> 5/5/76 18:40
> 
> Ya
> 
>  
> 
> 5/5/76 18:44
> 
> I wish you were here.
> 
>   
>    
> 

_ Guest room, third floor, last door on the left. _

He scrolled down.

  
  


> **Oxton**
> 
> 5/15/76 12:34
> 
> If we dont make any progress by then i think winston wants 2 leave???
> 
>  
> 
> I mean theres just 2 much goin on w/ the omniums n all
> 
>  
> 
> 5/15/76 12:36
> 
> Makes sense.
> 
>  
> 
> 5/15/76 12:37
> 
> do u wanna come w/ us??

 

For a minute, like many other minutes before, his brain drafted and edited and rewrote different responses: _ I will come,  _ or  _ Could Hanzo join us,  _ or  _ I won’t kill Omnics,  _ or  _ I want to, but I can’t,  _ or _ I need to be by my brother’s side.  _ At last, like many other times before, he closed Tracer’s text window without answering. Genji wrapped up Hanzo’s things, grabbed Storm Bow, and descended the building down to Hanamura’s streets, then to Shimada Castle.

He walked through the grounds to the main house, entering the wide mouth of a doorway and finding Hanzo sitting seiza before the altar there. The scroll hanging above Hanzo had once held the family’s mantra. Keiko had since replaced it with a joke:  _ Dragon’s Head, Snake’s Tail _ , an idiom for “anticlimax.” Genji was surprised Hanzo hadn’t cut it down. 

Genji let his brother hear his approach, not wanting to startle him. “I brought your bow, and your… things.” He lifted the re-tied bundle and the bow with one hand. The other was in his pocket.

Without rushing, Hanzo stood and turned. “Thank you.”

Genji handed them off to Hanzo one by one. “You drank a lot tonight.”

“I was not going to find any other form of companionship there,” Hanzo said, tossing the bundle to the ground, then placing Storm Bow reverently beside it.

“But they all asked you to stay tonight.”

Hanzo bowed his head. “For the same reasons they despise me, Genji. When they leave Hanamura, you should go with them.”

Genji froze. He didn’t know Hanzo even knew they were leaving, but then, they would have to leave eventually. “If I did, where will  _ you  _ go?”

Hanzo looked up at the scroll and said nothing.

Genji reached in his pocket. “When we were kids,” Genji said, “you used to take care of me when I got hurt.” He pulled the candies out of his pocket and held them out for Hanzo to see. “You're hurting, brother. You try to hide it, but I see it. Let  _ me _ help  _ you _ now. We can fix this, together.”

Hanzo stared down at them, then up, studying Genji’s visored face. For a moment, his brother looked mournful, brow splitting with wrinkles. Waiting for his brother’s words, Genji felt taut as a bowstring. He shut his eyes, then curled Genji’s fingers closed around candies. “The Shimada Clan cannot be fixed, no more than my brother can be returned from the dead.”

It stung. “Stop saying that like you know better than I do,” Genji snarled. He clutched the candies and felt them give, crushed in his tight fist. Anger, leading to destruction. Zenyatta would be disappointed. 

Hanzo, as always, met Genji’s ire with greater ferocity. “If you are so wise, answer me this: are you a man? Or a machine?”

Breath went out of him. Genji looked down at his sleeves, rolled up above his mechanical wrists. “I don’t know.”

A hand on his shoulder. Genji looked up. Sad eyes, hard mouth, Hanzo wasn’t angry anymore. The pity was worse. “Overwatch has done many terrible things,” he said. “They destroyed our family. They desecrated my brother’s body. But by far, the cruelest thing they have ever done is to give you Genji’s memories.”

Genji bristled, plucking Hanzo’s hand off his shoulder. “Overwatch was not cruel to me.”

Hanzo turned from him, looking up at the banner. “I know. They treat you like family. Whether you are Genji or not, that is more than I have done. Go with them, and forget you ever knew the name Shimada.”

That sucked the last of the energy out of him. It should have galvanized him one way or the other - assured him to abandon Hanamura and and join Overwatch, or stay by his brother’s side until he understood. It only made him more confused. 

“You could join Overwatch.”

“Hm?”

“Forget the Shimada name with me. Leave Hanamura and be a part of something greater.”

Hanzo eyed him askance, then turned away. “That is your path, not mine.”

“You choose your own path, brother. We cannot change the past, but we can change the future.”

Hanzo glared up at the four characters painted on the scroll. “Keep your future.”

Something about Hanzo’s tone made Genji’s guts drop. “Promise me you’ll be here in the morning?”

His brother hesitated. “I will,” he said at last. “Now, leave me.”

Genji did leave, shoving the candies back in his pocket and circling to the house’s rear garden to clear his head, rejected and raw. 

The night was warm, thickening the scent of grass and cherry blossom. Despite the heat, Genji rolled down the sleeves of his jacket to his wrist. It felt childish - like Hanzo always made him feel. Naive and foolish, never thinking of consequences when now, that was all he seemed able to think of. 

_ Keep your future.  _ How could he, when he didn’t know what it would be? Genji looked up and saw a window with a light on. 

Third floor. Last door on the left. 

Unconscious, Tracer’s texts opened and the message wrote itself out. He paused, then sent it.

 

> **Oxton**
> 
> 5/15/76 12:37
> 
> do u wanna come w/ us??
> 
> 5/17/76 3:41
> 
> Are you awake?
> 
>  

The window felt static for minutes. Genji’s human sensibility thought his ears, and the computer fused to his brain jacked up the sensitivity of the receiver. He got mostly residual noise: the wind, the creak of the old castle, footsteps and muffled voices in the castle. All layered together, he couldn’t pinpoint any particular sound. Maybe she’d just left the light on. Looking at the disparity between the dates on the last two texts, maybe she didn’t even want to talk to him.

When the text popped up, it startled him.

 

> **Oxton**
> 
> 5/15/76 12:37
> 
> do u wanna come w/ us??
> 
> 5/17/76 3:41
> 
> Are you awake?
> 
> 5/17/76 3:43
> 
> yup!! u want me to come by?? i think i remember what room ur in   
>    
> 

It tugged a smile out of him. He texted back, letting her know he’d come to her, then scaled up the side of the building and stopped, clutching the windowsill. Cautious, he peered over the ledge. 

Tracer was there, sitting up in bed, encased in some sort of bubble. It was surreal watching her move as she read over a file in her lap. A glass of water on her nightstand filled, emptied, filled again. The song blaring out of her headphones sped up and slowed down, then played backwards. A digital clock shuffled through numbers like a lottery. In the center of the bubble, Tracer bobbed her head and shook her shoulders, singing to herself in a fluctuating rhythm. Most curious of all, she wasn’t wearing her chronal accelerator.

She looked almost naked without it; weirdly normal;  _ human _ . The word hissed unwelcome in his head. She’d removed the jacket and tie, unbuttoned the top few buttons on her collar. Staring at the smooth, revealed line of her lithe torso, Genji want to unbutton a few more. He pulled himself over the ledge with intentional noise. 

It still startled her. Like a rubber band, her hand reached for the pulse pistol on her nightstand, then almost the same moment went back to her lap. She relaxed into a smile.

“Genji yeh, pa gyethmas?”

Genji blinked. Was his translator acting up? “Uh…”

“O!” Her eyebrows shot up and she leaned over the side of the bed, then her chronal accelerator was in her hands, then on her chest, straps fastening and loosening almost on their own. With the heel of her fist, she slammed the button on some device attached to the wall.

The music smoothed out to rhythmic percussion and guitar riffs. The water in the glass stopped at a quarter full. The clock numbers froze at 3:45 AM.

“Sorry about that. Forgot words come out all wee-wod outside the bubble.”

“What was that?”

“What? Oh, the bubble? It’s the LAChrA.” Tracer pulled the mechanism off the wall and showed it to him. Genji recognized Winston’s black-sharpie handwriting: Local Area Chronal Accelerator. “Lets me take this thingamajig off when I sleep and shower and all.” Tracer tapped the time device strapped to her chest.

Genji crossed the room to stand beside her bed and took it from her hand, examining it. “Can other people enter this… bubble?”

A knowing smile pushed Tracer’s freckles up under her eyes. “Yeah, but it’s weird. They won’t ghost, but they jump all around. Made a few people sick.”

“Like who?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” She pinched him on his fleshy side.

Genji shrank from her fingers and chuckled. “So they were partners. Did you ever…”

“Knock boots in the bubble? Oh, yeah. It’s  _ wild _ .”

Behind the visor, Genji was eyeing the buttons on her shirt, making a breadcrumb trail that now disappeared under the chronal accelerator. “I am surprised you have not passed out yet.”

Tracer giggled. “Bit of jet lag. Plus, I’m tryin’ to stay up and get some water down, hopin’ to avoid two-way spicy ramen tomorrow morning.”

He grinned. “You  _ should  _ get the ramen at Rikimaru while you are here, though. Best on earth.”

“You should too,” she said.

He ran his thumb along the LAChrA’s hard edges. “What are you reading?”

She flipped the grease-stained folder shut. “Ah, nothin’ important.”

Zenyatta’s tinny voice hummed in the back of his mind.  _ Run from what you fear, and you will fear it forever. _ Genji looked at Tracer’s folder and said, “I am afraid it will not be the same.”

“Huh?”

“Rikimaru. So much has changed, I am afraid  _ it  _ will have changed as well.” An exchange of information. He nodded at the folder on her lap. \

Tracer looked down at the cover, then after a pause: “It’s Widowmaker’s file.”

He hummed, remembering how Tracer used to follow Amelie around the Gibraltar anytime she came to visit Gerard. It used to make Genji, not quite jealous, but certainly forlorn. He hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed. “Are you alright?”

“Ah, yeah.” She scoffed, smiling with just her mouth.

“It’s just… I know you two were close.”

“I was close with  _ Amelie _ ,” she said, looking down at the file on her lap, her brows and mouth making hard, parallel lines. “Widowmaker isn’t Amelie. She’s just a thing in Am’s body.”

Genji looked at his wrinkled sleeve, then hid his hand in his pocket. He felt the crumbled remains of the mint candy.

“So, we gonna talk about how you just snuck in through my window at three in the morning?” Tracer said.

Genji got up. “You are right. I apologize.”

“No, that’s not- Hey, wait a minute!” Tracer blinked across the room and stood between him and the door. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.”

She took his hand, the one not in his pocket. “Sit and stay a while, then.”

He thumbed her knuckles. “What do you think I am?”

“Huh?”

“Do you think I’m a man or a machine?”

Her brows went together. “Does it matter?”

The question floored him. Of course it  _ mattered _ . It meant the difference between his brother and his master, the difference between Overwatch and the Omnics. Tracer reached up, feeling behind his synthetic ears until she found the levers to remove his mask. Her fingertips on the back of his neck made him shiver. Just as soon as they were there, they were gone. She tossed his faceplate onto the bed.

“I feel like I have to choose the path to walk, but I do not know which way is correct.”

His helmet went next, tossed on the bed as well. Tracer fluffed up his hair, then her knuckled traced the line of his jaw until her hand rested on his shoulder. “So don’t pick yet.”

Genji leaned back. “What do you mean?” 

“There’s always a thousand different possibilities, Genji. Every decision we make takes us somewhere else we can’t come back from. A butterfly flaps its wings and all that.” She looked away, her eyes distant, looking at something that wasn’t there. “If you think too much about where you’re going you’ll get lost forever, believe me.” She moved a breath closer and laughed without humor.

He could feel the buzz of her chronal accelerator, and inch from his chest. He wanted her body flush to his, wanted to be all skin again. His face in the mirror, once perfect, wild, a handsome prince and now, the beast. An ancient, familiar, useless wish. Zenyatta would be disappointed. “I spent so many years stuck in the past, Lena. I do not want to do that again.”

“That’s fine, love,” she said, fingers warm and feather-light on his shoulder. “But don’t get stuck in the future, either. Just be right here, right now.”

Close and still, she was static. Tracer wasn’t a distance ahead, flying back and forth, hard to follow. She was right here, with him, now, in arm’s reach.

Genji kissed her with his whole body. He wrapped himself around her, folded her in his arms, stomach to stomach, her accelerator pressed painful into his chest. He touched her at every point of contact her could reach, every inch of his lips over hers. He moved his hands across her shoulders, her neck; her hips, her back, painting her skin with touch, as if he could feel every part of her at once.

Their lips parted, noses touching. He moved his lips to her neck, tasting the tick of her pulse, drinking the sound of her whimpering. After making sure she’d have a few marks there in the morning, he kissed her again, moving from her lower lip to her chin. 

She leaned back, tugging him by the crook of his arm to the bed. “Come on,” she whispered. Tracer pulled his jacket off; he tugged his tie loose. They fell onto her bed side by side. 

He leaned forward, his cheek against hers, tugging the edge of his lips. “I couldn't stop staring at you tonight.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear. 

She giggled. “I could say the same, luv. You should wear clothes more often. They look good on you.” Her fingers crawled down the length of his back, padding over the cotton, footsteps in sand. Tugging the fabric to untuck the shirt like a tide. Contrary.

Genji slipped down and kissed the smooth skin of her clavicle, just above the first fastened button. “You want me to say another cheesy line?” He smiled coyly at her, thumbing the first button of her shirt loose. “You set it up for me.”

“Did it hurt when your clothes fell from heaven onto my floor or some such nonsense?” She grinned down at him, wrinkled nose and freckle-spattered, blush-dusted cheeks. 

Genji grinned against her newly-exposed skin, looking up at her under his brow. The chronal accelerator hummed near his throat, guarding the other buttons of her shirt. She stopped tugging at him, hands smoothed over his back through the crisp shirt. 

For a time, they kissed, touched, tested the edges with tongues on skin and fingers slipping under hems. She seemed as unsure how to proceed as he did. Not normal for Tracer, usually eager and impatient.

Genji stopped and pushed himself up, looking down at her. She was on her back, looking up. He was half over her, their hips side-by-side, his arms on either side of her shoulders. “Is something wrong?”  _ My face? My body?  _

“I don’t want to push you again,” she said. “I know in New York I was a bit, em,  _ pushy _ .”

He leaned back to put his weight on one hand. The other tracing a line along the placket of her shirt, from her belly to her waistband. “Let me,” he said, and thumbed open the clasp of her trousers. Her face went from a sheepish smile to hooded eyes and pursed lips. He didn’t dare look away, found the teardrop pull tab by feel, watched her lips part in pace with the teeth of the zipper. 

Genji kept his face even, solemn, fierce and meditative. Hyperfocused on her. Tracer reached up and thumbed a line of skin where his eyebrow had been cloven by the dragon burn scars. He palmed her stomach, soft but wiry, then tucked his fingers under the waistband of her underwear. She bit her lip. He leaned closer. Her face went slightly out-of-focus. She rolled her hips up, impatient, and his fingers slipped.

They both gasped at once. His eyelashes fluttered. It was warm near to burning; smooth and oily; new and nostalgic at once. Tracer’s face screwed up and she rolled up against his hand again. Her familiar eagerness made him swell. He had to press her hips down against the bed.

“Relax, Lena,” he whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed hers. “We have all night.”

Tracer whimpered and squirmed, and for a moment, Genji felt like his old self again. Tempting, teasing, a thing desired. Tracer cupped the back of his neck, hot air pooling at the blocked vents. She tugged him down into a bruising kiss, all jaw and tongue, unsubtle. Genji indulged it for a moment, then went searching with his fingers. The tiny movement pulled a cry from her, muffled against his mouth. He pulled back so he could watch her expression.

“Tell me when I’m in the right place,” he whispered. 

“It’s all the right place, luv,” she huffed. “Hell… hurry up.”

“Why?” He grinned down at her. She punched his shoulder, and he laughed, peeling her apart and curling his fingers. 

Tracer grabbed him by the shoulder what was still flesh, hips bucking up, and he knew before she said it. “T-there!”

He lingered, taking in every breath against his lips, every twist of her body. It made the bed squeak, the sheets wrinkle underneath her. Eager. He was starting to get eager too; swollen, hips down against the bed.

“Genji!” Her fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, pressing divets in his skin. Her chronal accelerator hummed. Instantly he was on his back, and the heel of her hand was pressed against the zipper of his pants. He gasped. It felt sudden and  _ so good _ .

He gasped, squirmed, screwed his eyes shut, grabbed her by the wrist. “Wait, Lena-” 

The pressure went away. Genji released her wrist and opened his eyes. Tracer was sitting up, straddling his thighs, looking down at him. She bit her lip. “Hell, em... Sorry.”

“It’s not-”

“No, I-”

They both laughed, apologizing over each other. She leaned forward and tucked her head into his shoulder. Genji threaded his fingers in her short hair, his other hand laid on her lower back. She didn’t move or say anything. He chewed on a sentence a few times before speaking. “I have not done much of this in this body.” Halting, he went on, “I tried once or twice, but…”

“But?”

“It ended bad.”

“How bad?”

Genji looked away, remembering their disgusted faces in video-recorded detail. A beast. A monster. _ A werewolf. _

Tracer reached up and fingered the first button of his shirt. “Let’s get this off. See what all the fuss is about.”

“But, you have seen it, haven’t you? In the park, when I got overloaded by that Tekhartha unit.”

“Could use a reminder,” she purred. When Genji hesitated, she laughed it off, sitting up again. Her hands went to her hips, leaving his top button fastened. “Ah, hell. I keep saying I’m sorry and get pushy again straight away.”

Pushy. Eager. Smiling, flushed, a contrast to the horror-stricken faces from that destroyed Numbani hotel room.  _ The exact opposite.  _ Genji, nervous to shaking, took her hand and guided it back to the first button of his shirt. 

She fingered his collar. “You sure, luv?”

“As sure as I will ever be,” he said.

She frowned. “Stop me anytime, alright?”

The buttons came undone beneath her short fingers. He sat up to help her shrug it off his shoulders. It whispered onto the sheets, forgotten. His skintight suit was still on underneath, like an undershirt, held up by two straps at his shoulders. 

Tracer’s thumb hooked under one strap, pinching the fabric. Heart racing, he reached under her hand and tugged the strap down. Catching on, Tracer grabbed the other shoulder, peeling the suit down to his hips.   
His chest was bare now, exposed skin and wires. He stared down, watching the mechanisms in his chest running when he breathed. Tubes instead of veins. A beast.

“Hey.”

He looked up. 

She was smiling. “You wanna stop?” 

He reached up and felt the calloused border where his skin ended. “Do you?”

Tracer shook her head. Her fingers found the line where skin met metal on his stomach. Slow, her fingers traced the line up to his shoulder.

“It’s sort of a-”

“Spiral,” Genji finished, remembering in a wave what house he was in. 

As they sat face-to-face on the bed, her legs straddling his thighs, Tracer explored further. It wasn’t his own practiced, feathery touch; it was firm and clumsy, touching for her own sake, not for his. Something about that made him feel like he might overheat. His eyes lidded.

Genji reached out. One hand clutched Tracer’s cheek and he pulled her into a kiss. The other slid up the inside of her thigh, suddenly hungry to feel her again, hear her, please her. Impatient, eager, he slipped his hand past her unbuttoned waistband.

She broke the kiss to catch her breath, then buried her head in his shoulder, panting. For a time he reveled in it, feeling her like she’d touched him, exploratory, more for his own benefit than hers. That ended fast. Soon, he pulled each labored breath out of her with purpose. 

The club, Keiko, someone beautiful in bed with him in the castle, writhing as he played them like a musician. He could almost believe he was the prince again. But it wasn’t his room, he wasn’t hazy with drink, and this was not a person he met a few hours ago - it was someone he’d cared for,  _ yearned _ for, for years. New and nostalgic at once - the point between the past and future. Here and now.  

“Lena,” he breathed into her neck. He put on pressure; speed. Tracer dug her fingers so hard into the skin on his back he felt her short nails. Her accelerator whirred against his bare chest, sent static through his circuits. Her thighs tightened around his. The pressure was pleasing.

“Genj, I’m…”

“I know,” he said into her shoulder, and redoubled his efforts.  

“W-what about you?” Tracer whined, helpless to his touch. 

He throbbed, ached, burned for contact. “I'm fine,” he cooed, voice calm.

“But… I want you to-”

Genji cut off that line of questioning with a crook of his fingers. Tracer swallowed a cry. Genji grinned against her temple, the clever dragon prince. “Come for me, Lena,” he whispered against her ear. “That is all I want.”

That was near all it took. She squirmed, twisted, stiffened, then released in his arms. He helped her ride it out with slow pressure, her body relaxing against his shoulder, catching her breath.

“Not… fair…” she breathed. 

He laughed, drawing out one last trill with his fingers before he moved his hand to her back. “It has been a long time since I did that.” he said. Cheeky; he was grinning over her shoulder. “Was it bad?”

“You know it wasn't, you smug arsehole!” She pinched him in retribution. 

Genji laughed again, then jumped when she poked the bulge in his pants.

“What about you?”

“I'll live,” he hummed, though he was not looking forward to the ache. Part of him wanted her clumsy, exploring fingers all over him, but the truth was: “I am not ready for that.”

Tracer leaned back to look him in the eye. “You're sweet, you know that? A bit cheeky-” she shoved his shoulder, making him laugh, “-but sweet.”  Her smile faded. “I'm glad you came up, even if it's the last time.”

That sucked the humor out of him. A beast again. “I don't want it to be. I care about you. But, the family, Overwatch, the Shambali… I feel like I'm being pulled apart.”

“I know,” she said, shrugging.

He knew the answer, but he had to ask the question. “Lena… Would you ever consider staying here?”

Tracer’s shoulders drooped. “I  _ can't _ , Genj. Overwatch… It's important. It took a lot of guts for Winston to activate the Recall. I need to be by him, yeah?”

Ganji hugged her to him. “I know.”

“Let's not worry about it tonight, luv. I think I could get some sleep now, after that.” She split from the hug to flash him a saucy smile. “You wanna stay? I can pop on the LAChrA and we can have a proper cuddle.” She always managed to make him smile.

“That sounds nice,” he said.

She went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. Genji stripped off his pants, leaving the top of his skintight suit folded down to his waist. Tracer emerged in her PJs. 

After affixing the mechanical device, the LAChrA, on the wall near the bed, Tracer asked, “you ready for this? I've been told it's a bit odd.”

Genji grinned, eyes looking from his bare, prosthetic arms to her chronal accelerator. “I'm used to a bit odd.”

Tracer stuck out her tongue and pressed the button, and became the eye of a storm. The world swirled around him. Everything outside the bubble slowed down, and every movement he made felt like misjudging the weight of something, too quick, not knowing his own strength, but more than that, not knowing his own speed. Then, things would fluctuate, and it felt like moving under water, slow motion.

“Whoa…” his voice stuttered.

“Yup!” Tracer said at normal speed, tugging the straps loose on her chronal accelerator. As soon as she tugged it off, Genji reached to pull her to him. It took a few tries, with the fluctuating speed, but finally he was wrapped around her, their legs tangled, their bodies pressed together. Not the clank of his armor and her time device, but skin against skin. Through Tracer’s forgotten headphones, Genji heard a few scant lyrics. 

 

_ The pleasure of your company _

_ Look what it’s done to me _

_ There’s a heart in my chest _

_ Where a hole used to be _

_ There’s a hole in my chest _

_ Where a heart used to be. _

 

He slowly drifted off to sleep, his face in her hair, her body slotted perfect up against his. He didn’t feel torn in half, two pieces mashed together. He was there, in that moment, and whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For people reading the full Omnic Crisis story chronologically, the next chapter is [May I, Chapter Five: Low Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7991308/chapters/19379152). 
> 
> Dohohoho~! Genji used to be a playboy, don't ya know. I really loved this chapter. Very indicative of why I love them together <3  
> Thank you for reading guys!! Hope you like this chapter! Probably more Time Machine next week ^^; (Sorry May I folks...I think there will be an upcoming point where the tides will turn in your favor)


	16. Open Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH IM BACK  
> First things first, **this chapter contains sexual content. Be warned all ye minors and folks who aren't into that!** It's probably the sexiest a chapter will get. Will be one more chapter like it later on, maybe two. We'll see. 
> 
> Alright guys, sorry for the long and unanticipated break. Between Blizzcon, a UI test, and other life stuff, last thursday just wasn't viable ;-; BUT NOW WE'RE HERE! Thank you guys for asking about the chapter, it helped punch me into gear, a metaphor that you'll find is appropriate for this chapter. 
> 
> There's some angst in here because I can't ever not be angsty, but hopefully this chapter is, for the most part, fun, sexy, and exciting. 
> 
> I will be streaming tonight(11/17) at 9:30PM EST! <https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher>
> 
> Also, there is a Deja-Ryu discord for anyone who is interested!  
> <https://discord.gg/KJ7BZ>  
> Link should last a day. If it's expired when you get there and you're hoping to join, hit me up in the comments. 
> 
> Thanks to all my readers and beta-readers for all your help and kind comments. They keep me going ;-; You guys are all the best anyone could ask for!! ;o;

Tracer faded into consciousness. The room was that warm purple of shades drawn against the sun. A bruise on the skin of daylight, a not-quite darkness. Keiko had given Genji a vastly larger and more extravagant room, with a double-vanity bathroom and king-sized bed. In the days since he’d snuck through her window, they’d opted for his roomier quarters. Genji was warm behind her, the hum of his mechanisms a comforting constant in her drowsy, half-awake state. She pawed for her phone and thumbed it on. It took a moment for it to acclimate to her time stream. The numbers on the clock stabilized at 8:13 AM. She was supposed to meet Winston at nine.

Tracer felt a smooth hand ran up her thighs to her waist. Genji shifted and closed the small distance between their bodies. The LAChrA made his movements jerky, unpredictable. She cooed in response and rolled her body against his, hoping it wouldn’t be like the last few times. 

His fingers brushed the hem of her shirt up and touched her stomach. She squirmed and giggled, then his hand was inside her thigh and she gasped. “Genj,” she purred, encouraging. He clutched her everywhere, exploring, the modified timeline of the LAChrA making it skip fast and surprise her or slow down to tease her. She whined as she felt him swell. Hungry, clumsy, she pawed behind her and found the hard shape in his underwear.

Genji gasped, and for the first time, he rolled his hips into it instead of shying away. She moaned in appreciation and tightened her grip. It was strained and awkward, but she didn’t dare move to shift positions, lest it scare him off. “Lena,” he cooed in her ear. The vibration made her shiver. She increased her pace and Genji’s voice and grip got tight, then in a snap he was rolled away, on his back with a hand gripping hers. He sat up.

“What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing, Lena. I am sorry,” he said into his shoulder. His face was red.

“Em… am I doing something wrong? I haven't been with a bloke in a while, so-”

“It’s not that, Lena, believe me,” Genji laughed, face in hand.

“Well… what then?”

Genji turned to look at her, face red. “I am sorry.” He released her hand and stood up, stretching. Tracer peered at his back. In the dim light of the room, she could only see patches of contrast: his skin, pale from always being hidden under his armor; the dark, cavernous mechanics that looked carved-out of his body; the dark splotch of half a dragon tattooed on his back. She was getting used to how he looked without the suit, but Genji still insisted on wearing boxer-briefs to bed. She'd been getting used to how those looked on him, too.

“You’ve got a great ass, y’know,” she quipped. 

“Oh, I know,” Genji crooned, then struck a practiced and titillating sexy pose, giving her bedroom eyes over his shoulder. Tracer flushed, giggling.

Genji rounded the bed in a time-warped snap, and pulled her up in his arms. His body felt two kinds of warm - both blood beating under skin and gas pumping through an engine. Both comforted her. “Thank you for being patient with me, Lena,” he cooed against her lips, hand at her hip and wandering. “If you like, I could…” His fingers slipped into her waistband. She sighed - it was certainly tempting.

“Nah, luv. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I should get going. I told Winston I’d help him repair the hoverjet this morning. I’m already late.”

Genji looked away from her and nodded. “I would like to take some time to meditate as well. I am meeting Keiko later at the motorcycle shop - the one I told you about.”

“Ohh, the one with the girl you like?” 

Genji laughed. “Yes, that one. Around three - if you are finished with the repairs by then, you should join us.”

“I’d like that,” Tracer said. 

Genji smiled at her the way she always imagined when she heard a smile in his voice - warm and kind, studying her face like it was a painting. He reached out and kissed her as he had that first night in the hotel room, chaste and princely, then left her side and disappeared into the bathroom. Tracer dug under the bed for her accelerator.

Once she was strapped up, the weight of the device on her chest, she turned off the LAChrA and left Genji’s room, stopping by her own room before heading out to the airstrip to meet Winston.

\--

Doing repairs in a Japanese summer, Tracer decided, was not one of her favorite things. She laid on her back beneath the newly-replaced left engine, checking the connections. She’d stripped down to a greasy tank-top and shorts, and was still coated forehead to knee-pits in sweat. The heat from the airstrip’s blacktop was soaking into her, but she meticulously checked the engine again. She swallowed, huffed, sighed, wiped her brow, then checked it over a third time.

_ It’s fine, _ she told herself as she tightened some already-tight bolts. More than anything, she wanted out from under this damn engine, yet every time she went through the checks she was sure she had missed some important step.

“Lena?” It was Winston’s deep voice. A second later, his large face peered under the ship at her. She gave him an exhausted smile. 

“Alright, alright. Let’s turn her on, see if she runs.” Tracer pulled herself out from under the hoverjet to find a frosty glass of ice water shoved in her face.

“Better stay hydrated,” Winston said, “As, haha, Dr. Ziegler would say.”

With a sigh and big smile, Tracer took the glass. “Thanks, big guy,” she said with earnest appreciation. She downed half the glass in one pull. 

“Alright, luv,” Tracer said, grabbing a towel and cleaning the grease off her hands. Go on to the cockpit, and I’ll keep an eye on the engine.”

“Um… Lena. What if,  _ I _ stayed here and checked the engine, and,  _ you _ went to the cockpit and, started the plane.”

“Em…” Tracer looked down at the bare engine, then to the ground beside it where they’d stripped the hull panel off. It had two clean, black bullet holes punched into it. “Y-yeah, ok, hehe.”

She felt Winston’s huge, warm hand on her shoulder and turned to see his smile. She relaxed a little and smiled back, then blinked around the to the opposite side of the ship where the bay door laid open. Tracer went inside and climbed the stairs into the cockpit. “Athena,” she called to the computer as she entered the cockpit, “How’s the new engine doing?” She asked, but she was already punching in the manual commands to bring the diagnostic up on the displays.

“All green, but we will need to start the engine to do a full diagnostic,” Athena’s soft, accented voice replied. 

Tracer tapped into the fuel systems, then out to check the turbines, then back to the fuel gauge.

“Agent Tracer?” Athena asked.

“Right! Right, sure thing.” Tracer exited to the engine overview screen and sank down into the captain’s chair, flipped the appropriate switches, and thumbed the button on the wheel. “Overwatch Agent: Tracer, verbally authorizing startup.”

The hoverjet quivered as the engines hummed on. Tracer took a breath when she realized she was quivering too. Part of her wanted to throttle the jet out into the sky. Another part, like sandpaper on her brain, wanted to run out of the cockpit altogether. She re-opened all the previous screens on the engine, taking a few breaths so her voice would come out even.

“Athena: engine diagnostic?”

“All green, Agent Tracer.”

As she continued to check the screens, Tracer poked the comm on the jet’s console. “Hey, Winston. How’s the engine look?”

“Great! Everything’s running according to specs. Good job, Lena.”

“Heh, yeah. Thanks.” Tracer took her finger off the comm. “Hey, Athena, could you run the diagnostic again for me? A full one this time. Just to be sure.”

“Of course, Agent Tracer. Running full-scale diagnostic...” The screen display got covered up by a UI window showing a progress bar.

Tracer sank down in the pilot chair, tapping the arm as she waited for the diagnostic to finish. As her eyes wandered, she spied something square and glossy tucked in the console. She reached forward, gripped the stiff edge and pulled it out. It was a photograph of a tall, young man with dark hair, wearing an RPF uniform, a helmet tucked under his arm. Tracer’s throat went tight, and she flew up out of the pilot’s chair and turned to leave. Instead, she ran face-first into Winston, who was standing in the doorway.

“Whoa! Sorry, big guy, wasn’t… looking where I was going.”

Winston grinned, adjusting his glasses. “Ahaha, that’s alright, I, well, I was coming to hear how the diagnostic went and- oh. Oh!” Tracer saw him gawking, and realized he’d spied the photo in her hand. “That, well, I, found it in your locker back in Gibraltar and, well, I thought, you know, you’d… like to have it back, hehe.” 

Tracer swallowed and looked down at the young man’s smiling face.

“I, uhm, kept forgetting to give it it you so, I, well, I put it up here so I wouldn’t forget! And then I, uh, forgot. Sorry.” Winston smoothed a meaty hand over his thick, short hair.

Tracer plastered on a smile. “Thanks, luv. I appreciate it, really.”

“Full diagnostic complete. All green, Agent Tracer.”

Winston looked up as Athena spoke. “You ran another diagnostic?”

“Aha, just wanted to make sure, yeah? You know, actually, it might be good to head and just take one more peek at the engine, y’know, just to check if it’s tip-top.”

“I checked it. Everything’s fine.”

“I know, but-”

“Everything is fine, Lena,” Winston assured again. His smile always comforted her.

She sighed. “Y-yeah, alright.”

Winston looked down at the photo clutched to her chest. “That’s Thomas, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer right away. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. I, really did forget it was in here, or I wouldn’t have sent you up.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, luv, I’m fine.” Tracer shoved the photo into an inside pocket of her jacket. 

“Still,” he said. “Look, I know you, uhm, don’t like… talking about, y’know,  _ things _ , serious things, but… what happened when we landed here, what Widowmaker did - it was beyond cruel.”

Afraid her voice wouldn’t come out even if she spoke, Tracer only shrugged. 

“And I  _ know _ , you want to be  _ okay _ for everyone, but it’s alright to let yourself be upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Tracer said quickly.

Winston swallowed. “Lena, look, I, knew you before the Slipstream. I saw you fly, before, and I’ve seen you fly since. It’s, not the same. I, didn’t know Thomas, obviously, but I think… well, I think, he would have wanted you to fly like you used to. To...  _ work _ through it not just…  _ get _ through it. Uh, does that make sense?”

Tracer forced herself to smile, and she didn’t know why. “Really, you don’t have to worry, Winston, I’m fine, I’m… great. Look, em, it’s almost three. I have to go, okay?”

Winston frowned, and looked over his shoulder at the cockpit console, where the time read 2:23PM. His posture shrank.

“Alright, Lena. Thanks for your help. I’ll see you later.”

\--

Tracer found the motorbike shop by the illegally-parked hoverbike out front. The sign was an illustration of a punker kid blowing bubblegum. Parked in the storefront display windows were a few mean-looking Kawasakis. 

Tracer blinked over to the window, ogling the new, shiny 2076 models, then looked past the bikes and saw an older woman with short, bleached-orange hair and a leather vest, talking to tall, grinning Keiko. 

“...you see any of those Talon freaks in here, I’m your first call,” Keiko told the woman. Tracer moved away from the window and listened.

“What even  _ is _ that thing? Is it going to mess up the equipment in my garage?”

“Nah, nah, nothing like that,” Keiko assured.

“I don’t like this-”

“I know, I know, but it’s just for now. Once Talon and Overwatch stop breathing down my asscrack, I’ll unload ‘em and everything goes back to normal, okay? Trust me on this, Sato.”

“Look, Shimada, we go back, but… We’ve all been hearing things. Naito said she saw you at the club the other day with  _ Hanzo _ . I told her she was nuts - that if you were ever in arm’s length of that bastard, you’d choke him to death for what he did to Genji. But since you brought these things in, Talon’s come sniffing around the village, Overwatch is in the castle, everyone keeps seeing you walking around with that Omnic... I don’t know  _ what _ to believe anymore.”

Tracer heard Keiko sigh. For once, she sounded speechless. “You and me both, Sato. Did you finish those adjustments to the  _ Wing  _ I asked for?” 

“Yeah, sure… I don’t see why-”

“What are you doing?” 

The third voice came at her from a different angle, and Tracer reactively blinked back a good five feet. When she looked up and saw Genji standing in the alleyway, she sighed and moved her hands off her pulse pistols. 

“H-hi! Hi, Genji,” she trilled, “Here I am, I’m here, right where you said to meet me, at the motorbike shop. Doing good. How are you, hehe?”

Genji’s visored face stared at her for a moment. “I am fine, Lena,” he said warily. “Thank you.”

“Oh, good, that’s great, good to… to know.” Should she tell Genji what she’d just overheard? She wasn’t even sure herself what to make of it herself. “So you’re… meeting Keiko here?”

“Yes,” Genji said. “She has some sort of surprise for me. I am a little afraid.”

Tracer laughed, high and chittery and for much longer than the casual joke required. Genji tilted his visored head at her. 

“Let's go,” Genji nodded to the door and strutted into the shop. 

Keiko turned to them when they entered and grinned. “Hey! Look who it is.”

The other woman, Sato, looked them over, appraising. She had a makeupless face with a wry expression. She looked maybe forty. “Welcome to the shop, guys. Let me know if you need help with anything.”

“You know Keiko?” Tracer asked.

“Pretty familiar with the Shimadas, but, so is everyone around here.”

Tracer looked over one of the bikes in the shop. “Oh! Who did this custom work?”

“I did,” she said smoothly. “I don’t really get enough business not to do it all myself. Got a few boys to run the storefront on busier days, but for now, it’s just me.”

“Does this have nitro  _ and _ turbo? I don’t see any liquid cooling. How do you keep it from overheating?”

“Oh, you know your bikes, huh? That one uses pop-core.”

“Pop-core? Hey, that’s what Mercy used when she built you, ain’t it Ge-”

She stopped herself and simpered at Genji, who shifted beside Keiko.

“Em, so the hovertech can run pop-core now?”

“With the right adjustments. It’s a bike so, it can take a little more with only the two wheels.”

“But won’t they pop at 300km?”

“Uoh. You planning to break 300 on a bike?”

Tracer giggled. “I break four on my Triumph.”

“Ugh, you ride a Triumph? British trash, get out of my shop!” They both laughed. “Seriously, though, that’s fast for a Triumph, isn’t it?”

“It’s custom, did all the work myself,” Tracer declared. “It’s a beaut.”

“I’d love to see it sometime.”

“Don’t leave home without it. We airlifted in with the hoverjet. I could bring it by, if you like.”

“Wait, were you here a couple weeks ago? You were, weren't you, there was that big showdown outside. I  _ knew _ I heard a Triumph engine. Made my ears bleed.”

Tracer laughed. “That’s my baby!”

“400km in a Triumph. Show off,” Sato muttered. “You remind me of a regular customer I used to have. Always wanted the bike faster, except he had half the brain for bikes in his head. He knew just enough to get his ass in trouble. I had to set him straight a few times.”

Tracer perked up. “Oh?”

“Oh yeah. Rich kid, A Shimada actually, Keiko can tell you about him. Youngest son, loaded with nothing to do. I think it was just something to spend money on. He used to ask me for stupid stuff on this bike of his. A six-point-eight kilogram nitrous canister, for example.”

Tracer looked at Genji. “ _ Six-point-eight _ ? That’s so much weight, you’d  _ never  _ need that much NOS for a motorbike.”

“Trust me, I told him, but he wanted to show off. Any rider worth a damn would have seen that big bottle strapped to the side and laughed him out of a race.”

Tracer giggled, looking across at Genji. “He sounds like a real tosser.”

“I don’t know what that is, but you’re probably right.”

Keiko leaned in to Genji’s ear and spoke, loudly. “Hey Genji, they’re talking about you like you’re not here.”

Everyone straightened. Sato glared at Keiko.

“Not funny, Shimada-san.” 

“Good, ‘cause it wasn't a joke,” Keiko said firmly. “Come on, Cousin, pop your mask off, show Sato your pretty face.”

Genji shifted. “I would rather not.”

“Ah, he’s shy now. Took Hanzo burning him to a crisp to do it. He won’t even take the thing off for me.”

“Keiko, Genji is dead. Please, don’t insult his memory with this foolishness. It’s low, even for you.”

“It is not a jest, Sato,” Genji finally said. “I thought everyone in Hanamura knew by now. I know the whispers have been going around.”

“What, old man Yashiro from the blade shop? We just thought he’d gone senile-”

“Prove it to her, Cousin,” Keiko said. The sharpness in her voice made Tracer uncomfortable.

Genji sighed and leveled a visored gaze on Sato. “Do you remember the time I crashed the  _ Sparrow’s Wing _ into the anime store? I brought it in and you were  _ so _ angry with me, that it would cost hundreds to repair. I said, ‘more business for you’. You joked you were going to paint it with ecchi girls with their panties showing just to teach me a lesson, and that if I died you wouldn’t be able to pay your rent. So-”

“-you bought the building and gave me the papers, so I would have the shop forever.” Sato stared at him, wide eyes wet.

“I signed the note, ‘to beautiful Sato, you will always own this shop as you have always owned my heart.’”

“You always were a cheesy little shit,” Sato half laughed, half cried, covering her mouth. “It… It really is you. How?”

Tracer looked away from Genji and Sato for a moment. Keiko was watching them with a dull kind of melancholy. When she caught Tracer looking at her, though, she grinned and stuck out her tongue, the Viper again.

“Overwatch. As you can see I am… Not as I was. I needed extensive prosthetics, internal organ systems supplemented or replaced. I am very different now.”

“I can’t believe it. Oh, God - Keiko, that’s why you had me-”

“Shh!” Keiko wagged a finger. “It’s a surprise.”

“Yeah! Yeah, of course. It’s back in the garage, come on.”

Sato lead them to a back door that lead into a garage, where a lot of motorbikes and parts were laid out, taken apart, or turned upside down. Tracer looked around, excited and spellbound. She spied one object in the back, mostly covered by a tarp. It was a big cylinder in a casing, on some steel feet. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it definitely wasn’t anything to do with motorbikes. She gawked at it until Keiko announced “Here it is!”

Tracer looked as Keiko presented a greasy canvas that was obviously covering up a bike of some kind. “You do the honors, Cousin,” she said. 

Genji tilted his head. “If this has twenty nitrous cans on it or something, Keiko, I will fight you here in Sato’s garage.” He pulled the sheet off, then gasped. It revealed a beautiful bike, all sharp lines and winged, green accents. Some kanji was written on it, but Tracer couldn’t read it. 

“The  _ Wing…  _ Is this really my old bike?”

“Yup. Keiko brought it to me to store after- Well, after we all thought you were…” Sato shook her orange head. “I still can’t believe it!”

Genji and Sato looked at one another and finally embraced. Tracer smiled.

Keiko was smiling too. “I had her store it here. Didn’t want Hanzo to get his hands on it. It's exactly the same, right?”

Genji ran his mechanical hands over the bike. “No, it’s been updated! There’s a new engine, new hover tires, it’s got the pop-cooling!” Genji tapped the vents on his shoulders. “Just like me, haha.” He knelt down and examined the engine. “What is this?”

“Variable-geometry turbo. Smooths out the lag. It’s got a little NOS for that too. Not, y’know, six-point-eight kilograms, but.” 

Genji straddled the bike, clutching the throttle. He looked like a natural on, an easy stance, muscle memory putting his feet and hands in the right places. Like riding a bike. His visor and suit even looked like a motorbike helmet and jumpsuit, she realized. He spoke excitedly with Sato, cute and attractive at once. Sweet, a kid with a new puppy, and at the same time, expert posture and the sleek lines of his body, hardly obscured by the skintight suit. She could see every muscle, the curve of his small waist up to his broad shoulders. He stood up on the pegs and stuck his ass out. Keiko made a joke. Tracer gawked. 

“Lena?” Her name startled her.

“Ah, yeah!”

“What do you think? This is the bike from when I was young. Remember, I told you? It’s called the  _ Sparrow’s Wing _ .”

“Ah, haha, yeah it’s real nice and all, but it couldn’t beat my Triumph.”

“Uoh, is that so? Maybe we should test that theory.”

“Yeah? You got a track out here?”

“The streets are Genji’s track,” Keiko said. “How about a street race, tonight, when the roads are clear?”

Tracer grinned ear-to-ear. “You’re on!”

\---

It was dark except for the light of the waning moon. The streets were abandoned of cars and pedestrians. Tracer had shown up to the appointed rendezvous with her bike, in her riding suit and helmet. Genji was already there with his green Kawasaki and a completely smashed Keiko.

“Ooooooooh! I like this outfit, Tracer, looks painted on, hahahahaha! Cousin, check her out.”

Genji looked over her, and nodded. “Mm.” It seemed a little lackluster for Tracer’s taste - she thought she looked hot as hell in her getup. She wished she could see his face. She decided to try showing off her Triumph instead.

“It’s nice. Not pretty, but the modifications are solid,” Genji admitted. “Still won’t beat the  _ Sparrow's Wing _ , though.” He patted the seat of his bike. It was all sharp lines, green and black, stylish - it reminded her of the dragon tattoo on one half of his back. Her Triumph, hardly more than engine and wheels, looked like the other half.

“Yeah, right. I hope you like the taste of dust, cuz you’re going to be eatin’ mine!”

Genji laughed. “We shall see. Just don’t try using your accelerator when you start to lose. That’s cheating.”

Keiko chimed in. “Ugh, I hate foreplay. Just race already!” She stripped her tie off her neck. “I’ll be that bitch in the heels that waves a banner when one of you wins.” She grinned at Tracer. “Kick his ass.”

Tracer nodded to Keiko, winked at Genji, then put her helmet on her head and straddled her bike. She tucked the kickstand in, then kicked the engine to life, making it roar. 

Genji slid onto his own bike, smug, smooth, and Tracer could almost see the foolish, charming playboy in his body language. He revved the  _ Sparrow’s Wing _ and looked at her with his expressionless, visored face. She wondered if, with the helmet on, she looked the same.

“Count us off, Cousin!” Genji called.

Keiko stumbled between them and raised her tie in the air. It was black and white. “Ready?”

They revved, engines hungry to move, like a twitching racehorse that loved to run. 

“Set…”

Tracer leaned forward, taking stance. The hover tires hummed, whirring up, making the bike lift a bit higher.

“Go!”

The second the consonant was out of Keiko’s mouth the bikes flew past her, flying down the empty Hanamura street. Tracer started off strong, comfortable with her bike in a way Genji wasn’t yet. She pulled ahead of him as they approached the end of the block, then she slowed into a clean, wide, safe turn. 

Behind her, she heard Genji’s engine rev up. “Don’t blink,” he quipped as the  _ Sparrow’s Wing _ blew past her. Genji took a tight drift turn around the corner and pulled ahead. Tracer accelerated into the turn, gritting her teeth and gaining on him. 

“Ha! You think a drift is fancy?” she yelled at his shoulder. “Watch _this_.” They were approaching another corner, and Tracer revved the throttle, kicking up a few gears as she sped far ahead of him. She raced towards the next turn, a hairpin turn that lead into an alleyway. Just before she crashed face-first into the brick side of a building, she turned the handlebars and gripped the front brake.   
The back wheel flew up and swung behind her like the hand of a clock. Her hoverwheels warbled, that dog-howl whine as the jets tried to keep the front wheel stable. The back wheel, already detached from the ground, latched on to the wall behind her. The maneuver took maybe a second. 

Her bike steadied, then Tracer punched the nitro and launched off the wall and around the corner like a rocket - like a  _ jet _ . Exploding off a carrier, nothing but sky in front of her, fast and free. Not a thousand splayed threads, just empty pavement in front of her and Genji in her rear view. He was still at the corner, taking a slow drift around. She giggled over the roar of the engine until she spied the crooked alleyway in front of her. 

Tracer gasped, slowing down to maneuver the tight, jagged, unfamiliar space. Behind her, she heard the lion’s roar of Genji’s bike hitch as he kicked the gear up. Seconds later he swerved past her, easily navigating the tight alleyway. 

_ Like the back of his hand. _ He’d grown up on these streets. He’d slowed down because he knew this alleyway was coming. Her move had been fast, gimmicky - risky. Like the RPF hotshots at the airfield back home, the ones she used to watch as a kid, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. The move, like those pilots, were the one’s Thomas had warned her about. Good advice she’d never taken.

She saw Genji’s bike disappear around another corner. She followed, and found herself in another narrow alleyway. This time, though, the road was clear. She punched her nitro and flew forward until she was on Genji’s tail, but the alleyway was too narrow. Every time she tried to pass him, Genji cut in front of her. After a few of her failed attempts, Genji gave her a peace-sign over his shoulder. 

“Cheeky bastard,” Tracer huffed. She looked past Genji and saw the tall, lean shape of Keiko waiting for them way ahead.  _ The finish line.  _ There was some open space once they got out of the alleyway, but not enough for her to pass him before he won, not at this speed. She peered down the long, straight alleyway, closed in on either side by two walls. Only one path to take…

...or was there?

_ Think like a pilot, love. _ Thomas’s voice in her mind. Her eyes moved along the long, bare stretch of wall. Revving the engine, Tracer popped her front wheel up. The bike howled and growled, then hiccuped when she angled the front tire against the wall. When it found purchase, she clutched the front brakes, leaned her weight forward, and rotated her hips. The back wheel bounced up, then found the wall. The world turned sideways.

The bike swerved. She felt herself losing control as the bike struggled to stay upright. She had to pick up speed, even if everything in her screamed to brake or bail out. Tracer clenched her teeth and twisted the throttle, leaning away from the ground. She straightened out, picked up speed, and rode along the wall right past Genji’s head.

“Don’t blink,” she teased back as she passed along the wall, his visored face following her. Beneath her helmet, she was grinning and giggling like mad.

Getting up on the wall wasn’t the hard part, though. The hard part was sticking the landing. If she tried to get back to the ground before the end of the alleyway, she’d bowl into Genji and crash them both. She had to launch off the side, then rotate the bike  _ just right  _ in the air to land on both wheels. The more distance she got, the more room she’d have to get it at the right angle. She accelerated, then flew off the wall.

Everything twisted. For a moment, she was flying. Fast and dizzy, the world was turning with no top or bottom, just air. 

_ Like a jet.  _

She leaned, adjusting, until the road was flat beneath her. The hoverwheels howled like a bloodhound as they hit the ground, and Tracer bounced in her seat. The bike fishtailed. Her hand twitched over the throttle, forcing herself not to hold onto it for dear life. She steadied, and her Triumph growled forward. “Woo!” Tracer cried, flipping Genji the bird as she exploded past Keiko, who drunkenly waved her black and white tie.

Tracer wheeled the bike around, then dismounted and tugged her helmet off, tossing it away in celebration. “Awwww yeah! Who’s the master? It's me!” She blinked back and forth, jumping around and punching the air, kicked up on adrenaline. 

Keiko stumbled towards her, grinning and laughing. “Uh-oh. You  _ beat  _ him.”

“Damn right I did!” Tracer’s heart was going a mile a minute. Her face hurt from smiling. 

Genji’s bike pulled up behind Keiko. “You're in trouble now,” she said.

Tracer frowned. “Awwww, luv, don't tell me he’s one of those guys that gets all pissy when a girl beats him.”

“Not exactly…” Keiko chuckled as Genji marched briskly up behind her. 

Tracer looked past Keiko at him as he approached. “You get a look at my arse as I passed you, luv?” She taunted, poking the air in his direction.

“Mmm,” he purred. His voice sounded different than she'd ever heard it: a deep, throaty sound, almost close to a moan. He slipped both hands around her waist and pulled her up against him, tight.

“Keiko,” he said without looking away from Tracer.

“Yeah?” Keiko answered.

“Go away.”

Keiko laughed, marching past Genji and stopping beside Tracer long enough to lean in and whisper to her. “Have fun.”

As Keiko stumbled away, Genji pulled Tracer with him back towards a door attached to the Ramen shop. With his wakizashi and a bit of force, Genji expertly cracked the door open and pulled Tracer back into a tiny office that connected to the Ramen Shop’s pantry.

“Why are we going in here?”

“I used to break in here all the time,” Genji told her in that smooth voice, shutting the door behind him.

“Okay, but why?” 

Genji was kissing her almost the instant he took his mask off; a fierce, bruising kiss that pushed her back against a desk. Fumbling, Genji lifted her and sat her on it, pushing pens and papers out of the way. Tracer could barely respond - before she knew it he had pushed her knees apart and was standing pressed between her legs. He split from the kiss and nuzzled her cheek.

“I used to come in here to have sex,” he said.

“What? Why not go home?” She laughed, but it was breathless and weak. Genji tugged the scarf sharply from her throat.

“Because I didn't like waiting,” he crooned in her ear, then kissed her neck. She squirmed under the pressure, the feel of his teeth biting, and not gently. 

“You sure like waiting now,” she whined as he labored there for many minutes. 

“How do I get this off?” He pinched the fabric of the suit.

“Em… The zipper starts under the accelerator.”

Genji found it fast and had it unzipped faster, tugging the suit open to expose her belly. She helped shrug it off as best she could. 

Tracer squirmed at his touch. “Genj, slow up, yeah? Your mouth’s writin’ checks you don't wanna cash, luv.”

He slammed hard up against the desk, leaning forward and pushing her down to her elbows. She felt him, eager against her. Against her lips, he said, “I will show you what my mouth can do.”

He took his time at her neck again, then more time at her belly until she was wiggling and trying to push him downward by the shoulders. Finally, he tugged her suit roughly down to expose her, then peered up to her face as he extended his tongue out. 

She had to shut her eyes then. Genji went hard out of the gate, twisting the throttle, making her squirm and kick. She grasped him by his hair and he eased up, changed gears, smooth and expert. Tracer puffed and leaned back. It was easier to lay back and enjoy when he wasn’t racing for the finish line. 

After a while, though, she got impatient. “Faster,” she gasped. When he didn’t oblige right away, Tracer looked down and spied him looking up at him with wide eyes. When he caught her gaze, that was when he punched the power. There wasn’t much road left after that. It made her dizzy, which only made it more and more intense. Whisky throttle, holding on too tight until she crashed with a gasp and a cry. 

He didn’t stop right away, suckling pressure and warm breath riding things out. Tracer was pulling his hair with her right hand and pushing his shoulder with her right foot. Stepping on the brakes. Genji stopped, stood, laid forward on top of her and kissed her hard. The weight and taste were familiar. His armor and her accelerator clinked together. It was weird how much she’d missed that. 

“Hell, Genj,” she cooed when he finally released her mouth and buried his face in her shoulder. She was shaking underneath him, still a little twitchy. She realized belatedly that he was shaking as well.

“You alright, luv?”

“Mm,” he said into her shoulder. Then after a beat, “Ah, I thought, maybe…”

“Maybe...?”

“Maybe I could cash that check.”

It took a moment for Tracer to realize what he meant, but when she did, a thrill of excitement went through her. “Really?”

Genji pushed himself off her shoulder, looked down at her, then nodded. 

“You’re nervous, huh?”

Another nod.

She kissed his cheek. “Don’t you worry, luv. I’ll be sweet as anything. We can stop anytime, yeah? No questions asked.”

Genji looked visibly relieved, and rolled so he was seated beneath her. Tracer let him take the lead, keeping an eye on his face, petting his hair and stroking his chin. She wasn’t sure how he planned to get undressed, and pushed down her curiosity when he reached behind his back. There was the shift of fabric and the clink of metal, then he removed something that looked almost like a thong - just a black strip of fabric with metal on each end. He set it aside, then averted his eyes. Tracer gave him a kiss on his cheek by way of reassurance before giving it a peek. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but not this.

“Keiko wasn’t entirely wrong,” he whispered.

“Not entirely right, either,” Tracer shot back.

“There was a lot of tissue damage, so it’s…”

“Half and half. Just like you,” Tracer finished, tilting his chin so he’d look at her. “It’s a…” She had to stop a laugh and couldn’t finish the sentence.

“A what?”

“Nothing.”

“No, Lena, tell me.”

Tracer swallowed a laugh. “It’s a, uh…  _ cyboner _ .”

Genji’s eyebrows shot up, then he snorted, and laughed. The tension ran ou of her, and she reached forward and stroked him with two firm fingers.

His laughter turned to gasps. He squirmed, chin-to-shoulder, shying away. “There’s something else-”

She took him in her fist, leaning forward with bedroom eyes. “Yeah?”

“Ah! Lena-” Genji leaned back, huffing and twisting. She finally, finally, got to actually  _ do _ something. She revved the engine, eager for the stretch of road that just opened up in front of her. Genji leaned back on his elbows - he was so responsive, panting and sputtering, crying her name, starting sentences he couldn’t finish. 

“Lena, wait-”

It happened before she could stop. Genji cried out, his back arched, his eyes rolled back, his whole body stiffened for a few seconds, then he sank down on the desk in defeat, panting. He shivered and cooed as she thumbed him. 

As soon as he caught his breath, Genji groaned. “You want to say something.”

“No,” Tracer lied.

“You want to make a joke.”

“No, I don’t!”

“Yes, you do,” he whined.

“Well, it’s just… it really  _ has _ been a while for you, eh?”

Genji groaned, covering his face. “It’s mortifying.”

“Did you know this was going to happen?”

“It’s  _ sensitive _ .”

“I’ll say,” Tracer joked.

“Ugh!” Genji rolled his eyes. “I used to be able to last  _ forever _ .”

“Well, that sounds boring.”

“In this, I would much prefer to be boring.”

“In bed? I don’t think so, luv,” Tracer quipped, sticking her tongue out at him and leaning back. “There a towel ‘round here? Don’t want that gunk to muss with your circuits or something.”

“It won’t,” Genji assured.

“You know from experience, luv?”

“Like you said, it’s been a long time.”

“Manual transmission, eh? Ah, here we go.” Tracer found a box of tissues on a shelf. “Y’know, I half expected the stuff to glow green or something.”

Genji sat up. “Glow green? Why would it?”

Tracer returned and helped him clean up. “I dunno. Aesthetic?”

That made him laugh. She tossed the tissue into a bin across the room, then punched the air with both hands when she saw she made the shot. “Ohh! She shoots, she scores!”

Genji grabbed her and pulled her to him. “I suppose you did.”

“Yeah, I did!” She slipped her hands around his slim waist, ogling the curve up to his broad shoulders. “I’m real glad, Genj. I know it took some braves on your part.”

“I just wish I was-”

Tracer buttoned his lips with the tip of her index finger. “You’re fine, luv. We’ll work on it if you like, but until then…” Tracer moved her hand down across his stomach, then palmed him. He gasped. “...I like that you’re sensitive. It’s kinda hot, if I’m honest.” 

“Do not look so smug,” Genji said, narrowing his eyes at her. They held each other for a few minutes, the hum of Genji’s systems and Tracer’s chronal accelerator making a concert of comforting white noise in the dark office. Two people rescued by Overwatch, saved by their friends. Without tech, Genji would be a corpse, and she would be a ghost. Instead, they were here, alive and in each other’s arms. For a few minutes, she felt content to do nothing but lean against him in silence.

“Come on,” Genji cooed. “We should make sure Keiko stumbled home alright.”

Tracer leaned back, missing the warmth of his body. “You were a bit rude when you sent her off, eh?”

“She knows the deal.”

“What deal is that? She seemed to know before you even got off the bike that you were going to drag me off to a dark room somewhere.”

Genji shrugged, hopping off the desk. “What can I say? I like a woman that can kick my ass.”

They put themselves together, zipping up and putting strands of hair and pieces of armor back in place before leaving the way they came. “Man, I bet the folks that run the ramen shop hated your guts.”

“Nah, they loved me,” Genji shot back, arm moving around her waist.

“You broke into their shop and had sex on their desk. You said it was something you used to do  _ often _ . All their papers all out of order, not to mention all the money spent on cleaning supplies.”

“Yeah,” Genji admitted. “But each time I would go to the shop the next morning and leave a tip to cover any damages.”

“Can’t clean germs with a tip, luv. Money doesn’t solve everything.”

Genji sighed. “It  _ felt _ like it did, back then. Maybe I’ll go back in tomorrow. Keiko will need some spicy ramen after tonight, I think.”

_ Keiko _ . 

Tracer felt a hard and sudden weight on her chest, thinking about what she’d overheard at the shop. She tucked herself under Genji’s arm. “Hey, Genj… about Keiko.”

“Yes? What about her?”

“I overheard something really weird at the shop before you got there. She was talking to Sato about keeping something in her garage? I know she’s invited us, but it sounded like she wanted Overwatch out of Hanamura as bad as Talon.”

A pause. “I do not think she really believes it’s me,” he said.

“What?”

“She has been testing me. That’s what today was about, with the bike.”

“Wha-... but, you knew all about it. You knew it was different from before. You rode it like a pro.”

Genji clutched her to his side. “All data Blackwatch might have had on me, if they had been looking close enough.” 

Tracer looked away. Her mind wandered to Genji’s master, Zenyatta, gone missing. To the war and the two holes in the hull of the hoverjet. To Genji, before he left Overwatch. He wasn’t the street-racing playboy back then, or the calm, spiritual, shy man he was now. He was a mysterious and troubled swordsman, full of anger and a thirst for revenge. He’d left, gone to the mountain as they say, and returned at peace. It had taken  _ years _ .  _ Worked  _ through it, not just  _ got _ through it. Tracer thought of a replaced engine, checked and checked again; of the two bullet holes in the hull; of a photograph, tucked away in her jacket pocket.

_ I think he would have wanted you to fly like you used to.  _

What if she couldn’t anymore? What if she took off her brave face and was, like Genji, so different now that not even her own family would recognize her? Without joy, without contentment, she smiled, and didn’t know why.

Genji brushed her hair from her face and didn’t smile back. “I have proven as much as I can to her with words. I confront her tomorrow. What happens then, we shall see.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I'm afraid things are going to be a little tough plotwise for a while after this, but I'll try to sneak some fluff in there to balance it out.


	17. Codo con Codo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Time Machine! First things first:  
>  **Content Warning: There is referenced and evidenced physical, familial abuse in this chapter.** It's not depicted directly, and this is probably as bad as it'll get. If you'd like read the chapter but not this part, skip past the italics section at the beginning.  
>  Special thanks this week to I.L. for helping me out with the Spanish for the title ^_^  
> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, milfordb, Doc, and Jae. You guys keep me at my best <3  
> And, of course, thank you to all my readers, everyone who comments, bookmarks, subs, and gives kudos. I have been bad about replying to comments in a timely fashion, but I'll try to catch up soon!  
> [Streaming tonight, 9PM EST.](https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher) If you can, I'd love for you to join me! I'll be doing the rest of my placements/comp so get ready to hear me channel Keiko by swearing a lot haha 8D

_ His collar wasn’t the right angle of askew. Genji tugged and bent it one way and another, trying to get the placket to lay split on his chest in a tempting and effortless way while still hiding the bruise on his shoulder. He fastened and unfastened the same button on the sheer shirt several times, pouting at himself in the mirror. At last, he gave up and left it buttoned, showing only a peek of his black undershirt.  _

Ah, who cares?  _ he thought. _ It’s only Keiko.

_ A thin, gold chain, a few rings, and his  _ chokutou _ strapped to his back finished off the simple outfit. Taking one last look in the mirror, Genji was satisfied, and grabbed his bag. He tossed in a pack of  _ _ cards and, as an afterthought,  _ _ a bottle of cologne - he knew he was going to smell like alcohol swabs and old people by the time he got out of there.  _

_ He shouldered the bag and kicked the door to his room shut on the way out. The ancient floorboards of the castle sparkled with polish, the supports new with the scent of fresh paint. He could hear hammering construction through the walls, happening in some insignificant hallway of the house. Shimada Castle was in a constant state of renovation. Falling apart, then being rebuilt again. Sometimes he wished they’d just let it rot. _

_ Genji descended the steps and found his father, his brother, and his aunt seated around a low table, poring over splayed sheets of paper and glowing tablet screens. His father, Ryõma, folded his hands on his knee, looking over Hanzo’s shoulder. Kanata leaned over the table on one elbow, brow knit. Hanzo sat in seiza between them, cool and observant. The elders on either side closed his brother in like castle walls. When Hanzo pointed out a connection between a company’s stock investments and a factory purchase, Kanata put a scab-knuckled hand on his shoulder and praised him. With Hanzo, she was always warm and maternal in a way Genji had never seen her act with her actual daughter. _

_ Hanzo caught sight of Genji and lengthened out - back straightened, lips parted, brows up. Genji snapped his tongue against his teeth and turned to leave through the main hall. He heard Hanzo get up, the whisper of his socked feet and baggy, traditional clothes. Genji turned, leaning annoyed against the doorway, waiting as Hanzo approached him. _

_ “Brother! I did not expect you to have risen so early.” _

_ Genji showed his teeth. “You always talk like you are in a  _ Jidaigeki _ ,” he complained. “‘Risen so early’ - just say woke up.” _

_ “Already criticizing my speech,” Hanzo said, “only a minute after you have ‘woke up’.” His usual dry, smileless humor. _

_ Genji smirked. “What do you want, Hanzo?” His eyes flicked to Ryõma and Kanata. They were watching. Hanzo either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. _

_ “We got numbers from the Kyoshi corp, we are looking them over-” _

_ “Ehhh, Hanzo, don’t we have accountants for that shit?” _

_ Hanzo glowered, then pressed on. “We may have found something we could leverage, but we must follow the money to be certain.” His brother took a step closer. “We could use another pair of eyes.” _

_ Genji looked back at his father and aunt. “Looks to me like you got lots of eyes, bro.” _

_ “Your brother is right, Genji,” his father said. “Join us.” _

_ Genji could feel Hanzo and Ryõma’s eyes on him, but he was staring at his aunt, Kanata. One of the  _ Yamata no Orochi _ ’s heads roared out from beneath her collar. Her knuckles were black with scabs. On her right hand were four heavy rings in the shape of the bruise on his shoulder. She was glaring at him. Genji held her eye when he said, “Nah. I am going to visit Keiko.” _

_ His father grunted. “Why?” He looked back down at the papers. “It’s only Keiko.” _

_ Genji dug his fingers into the strap of his bag. Kanata laughed a single, voiceless, bitter laugh and looked away from him, using a fat, bruised finger to drag a piece of paper closer. Genji reached out to Hanzo and leaned in, lowering his voice. _

_ “Forget this blackmail shit, bro. Dad and Kanata have done it a million times, they don’t need you.” With hope, “Come with me.” _

_ Hanzo looked down at Genji’s hand gripping his wrist. “I will have to do this myself one day, and so will you, Brother. You should learn.” _

_ Genji threw his head back, hissed through his teeth. “What _ ever _. Your cousin is in the hospital, man,” he pressed. “You could at least show your face.”  _

_ Hanzo hunched forward and looked over his shoulder, spying Ryõma and Kanata’s scowling faces. “I cannot,” he said. _

_ Genji scoffed and leaned back, adjusting his bag on his shoulder, glaring at their father and aunt. Two walls, keeping his brother away from him. “Fine. Go do your big bad criminal homework. Just keep in mind how Keiko got there.” Genji shot one last, ferocious scowl at Kanata, then turned his back to Hanzo and left. _

_ Genji went out to the garage and found the Sparrow’s Wing. He started it up, and the hum of the engine calmed his dark anger. He didn’t blame Hanzo for being loyal to the family - he just wished he could make his brother see the pain that loyalty caused to the people of Hanamura. He put on his helmet, hopped on his bike, and drove out into the neighborhood. _

_ It was a crisp, autumnal ride through the village streets and down the hill to Hanamura’s small, local hospital. He circled the place, following signs until he found the visitor’s entrance, then parked his bike. Genji pulled his helmet off, and fluffed his hair back into its spiky shock. He crossed the wide street to a marginally scenic pathway that lead up to the automatic doors.  _

_ The smell sucked everything pleasant out of him as soon as he walked inside. Genji buried his nose in his sleeve and walked to the reception desk.  _

_ “Can I help you?” the nurse behind the counter asked, splitting his attention between Genji’s charming smirk and the dragon tattoo peeking out of his sleeve. _

_ “Keiko Shimada’s room number, please,” he said, making his tone smooth and polite. _

_ The nurse turned to the hospital’s archaic computer system and tapped something into the keyboard. “Are you a family member?”  _

_ Genji fingered the cuff of his shirt, pulling it back just enough to show off the dragon’s green, scaly tail. “What do you think?” _

_ The nurse eyed the tattoo, then gave a tight, fast little nod. “248E. Down this hall, then two rights.” _

_ Directions received, Genji thanked him, then marched towards Keiko’s room number. When he got there, he saw the door was open. _

_ Keiko’s bed was angled up so she could lean back in a sitting position, her bandaged head lolled back on her pillow. She was thumbing a remote and staring up at a mounted TV. Genji knocked on the open door. She turned, and a huge grin split across her whole face. It changed to a grimace when she sat up too far. _

_ “Ugh, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, voice strained as she sank back down to her pillow. “I thought I was going to die from chronic boredom.” _

_ Genji chuckled, walking into the room. “How do you feel?” _

_ “Like shit. It hurts to breathe, my head kills, but they won’t give me extra meds. Assholes.” _

_ Genji pulled a chair up beside her bed and sank down into it. “What’s the damage?” _

_ Keiko rolled her black eye. “Broken head, broken nose, broken ribs.” _

_ Genji hissed through his teeth. “I saw her on my way out. Old bitch.”  _

_ “You tell her where you were going?”  _

_ “Yeah. She looked pissed.” _

_ Keiko’s laugh came out nasally through the bandage over her nose. “Good.” _

_ “You didn't have to put yourself between us.” _

_ “Sure I did. Look, she can beat on me all she wants, but I'll be damned if I let her think she can do it to you.” _

_ Genji fished the pack of cards out of his bag. “Hanzo was with her.” _

_ “When is he not? Oh shit, did you bring cards? Give it.” _

_ Genji handed her the deck. “I asked him to come.” _

_ “Aw, gosh, I can’t believe he’s not here, then!” Keiko looked down at her hands as she shuffled. “I don’t know why you bother with him. He’s been assimilated. It’ll kill him in the end.” _

_ “He is still Hanzo underneath. I feel like if we pried him out of Kanata’s hands for even a single night, we could get him to understand. Maybe no one knows how bad it is.” _

_ “It’s not about knowing - they don’t care. Hell, they’re probably just waiting for her to kill me one of these nights. One less problem to worry about.”  _

_ “I am sorry, Keiko.” _

_“Start pitying me, and I’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll end up my roommate in here.” Keiko folded the cards into each other, making a messy stack._ _  
__Genji looked down at her hands. “Why don’t you just leave?”_

_ Keiko dealt the cards out. “They say they won’t release me for a few days, skull fracture or something.” _

_ “No, I mean, leave the  _ family _. You run enough scams on the city kids at the club, I am sure you could make it on your own. I could get a hold of that black hat for you, even, if you wanted.” _

_ “Aw, you gonna make sure I’m taken care of, Gen-Jii-chan?” she teased. She looked back down at the cards as she dealt them and asked, “Would you go with me?” _

_ Genji should have been ready for the question, but he wasn’t. He rubbed his shoulder; thought of Kanata’s bruised, scraped knuckles, and of her and Ryõma boxing his brother in at that table. He shook his head. “I cannot leave Hanzo.” _

_ Keiko clicked her teeth, grinned, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thought so. Then I stay too.” _

_ “Cousin, please. Do not make me choose between you and my brother.” _

_ “Bastard. This isn’t some ass-backwards blackmail. I’m not like them, Genji, come on, you know that.”  _

_ Genji looked at her swollen eye, her bandaged skull, her hospital gown. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. _

_ “Hey! I mean it, Cousin. It’s not about that. All this shit? It’s just pain. Bruises and broken bones don’t matter.” She put her hand on his shoulder, and spoke a phrase she had spoken dozens of times before, but this time it wasn’t in Japanese - it was some language he didn’t recognize. “All that matters, is you and me, shoulder to shoulder-” was it French? Portuguese? Did Genji understand what she was saying because she’d said it so many times before? _

_ No, because when he finished the phrase- “burning this whole shit world down - no matter what,” -he was speaking that language too. _

 

\--   
  


He gasped awake. 

Around him, the light fluctuated in and out unnaturally, swirling, flashing. It took a few breathless seconds to realize he was in the bubble with Tracer. She stirred beside him, shivering and pawing for the spot on the bed he’d just been occupying. Smooth, Genji slid off the bed and to his feet, then covered her with the blanket. She sighed and went quiet again, hugging his pillow.

Genji smiled down at her, then peeled himself out of the bubble and stretched in front of the blinds. His system energy blinked low in the back of his mind, as did a dozen fresh, unread news articles. Keywords found like “Shambali,” “Omnium,” “Overwatch,” and “Second Omnic Crisis.” Almost unconsciously, his system tried again to call Zenyatta again. It pinged, pinged, pinged. 

No answer.

“Lookin’ good, luv.” 

Genji spun and found Tracer awake in the bed, leaning her chin on her knuckles, smiling at him like a ray of sunshine. 

“Good morning,” he said, and meant it. He returned to the bedside and sat, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

“Back at ya,” she said. “You goin’ out for your morning meditation?”

“Yes,” he said. “I was just checking the news and…”

“Trying Zenyatta again?”

He took her hand. “Still no answer.”

“Y’know, I was thinking,” she said as she ran a thumb across his knuckles, “maybe you should try some other members of the Shambali. At least you could learn if he’s still performing the rites. Would be a weight off your mind.”

The idea sparked through him. Of  _ course _ \-  how had he never thought of it before? Zenyatta’s brothers in the Shambali could tell him what was going on. “Lena, you are a genius,” he laughed, pulling her into a kiss that lasted a little longer than gratitude dictated. When he leaned back, she bit her lower lip with a smug little grin that made his blood run hotter.

“Pretty much, yeah,” she said, lifting her chin. 

Genji’s computer-brain scanned through the serial numbers of the Shambali’s members and found Kunyatta. He’d been a high-ranking member of the order, and a friend to Genji; he would know enough to at least ease Genji’s concern. The call connected. It pinged, pinged, pinged.

“What’s wrong?”

Genji wrung his hands. “No answer,” he said.

“Maybe they’re busy?”

Genji’s system frantically went down the list, calling every member of the Shambali archived in his system. “They’re omnics, Lena, masters of multitasking. They do not simply not answer if they are busy. I had thought maybe,  _ maybe  _ Mondatta’s rites were so taxing on Zenyatta’s systems that he could not allocate resources to reply, but…” Every IP he tried to contact gave him the same result: a connection, a few pings, but no answer. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Tracer said. Genji didn’t realize he was shaking until her arm went around him, clutching him to her chest. Over her shoulder, he saw her other hand pawing the nightstand for her phone. 

Genji’s mind was devouring every news article related to the Shambali he could find. There were some public statements, some peace talks, some calls for action by some governments, and some disgusting statements on their agency, many by the increasingly-vocal Professor Lovings. 

Tracer leaned back, phone to her ear. “Winston? I’m with Genji. Something’s going on with the Shambali, he can’t get a hold of  _ any _ of them. Considering Russia, I think Overwatch needs to investigate it.”

Muffled, Winston’s warm, low voice thrummed through the phone’s speaker. 

Tracer nodded, fidgeted, took Genji’s hand and squeezed it. “Em, they’re pretty secluded up there,” she said into the receiver at last. “If something happened, the news might not catch wind of it for days, yeah? Especially if it’s  _ still  _ happening.”

Tracer paused again, listening to the phone.

“Yeah. Yeah, you got it. Thanks, luv.” She hung up the phone. “Winston and Athena are going to look into it. Winston says if he doesn’t confirm their safety in the next twenty-four hours, we’ll fly out there ourselves.”

Genji clutched Tracer’s hand. “Really?”

“Yeah. Pretty lucky you’re friends with the newly-reformed World Police, yeah?” She smiled at him, then leaned in and kissed the edge of his mouth. “We’re going to figure this out, luv, I promise.”

“Twenty-four hours?”

“Yeah. We haven’t heard a peep from Talon since the attack. McCree’s been on the trail of something, but he’s not even sure what yet. At this point, we’ve got so few resources, we’ve got to prioritize.”

“I have to talk to Keiko and my brother.”

Tracer’s big eyes got bigger. “Right. Of course.” Frowning, she pulled him to her, pressing her chest to his. As strange as being inside the bubble was, he liked being able to hug her so close. “Will Hanzo and Keiko be alright? If you go, I mean.”

Genji nuzzled into her hair and closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said. 

 

\--

 

It was strange to be on the top floor of Shimada Castle again. He had been here when he was young, of course; it brought up memories of climbing into his parents’ bed when he’d had a bad dream. In fact, everything about the bare landing with its single, grand door made him feel small, like Jack at the top of the beanstalk. 

The enormous guard stationed outside the sliding door didn’t help matters. “What do you want with the  _ kumichō _ ?”

“For her to wake up,” Genji said, adopting the light, haughty manner he’d once had as the son of Ryõma. “It’s almost noon.” 

“She’ll wake when she wakes.”

“I brought her hot tea.” Genji lifted the steaming mug. “So time is a factor.”

“You’re lucky we’ve let you as close to her as we have, past few weeks.”

“Fine. Then  _ you _ go in and wake her.”

The guard paused, peering askance at the shut doors. “Leave your weapons out here.”

Genji nodded, grinning behind his visor. “Thank you,” he said. “Hold these a moment.” He shoved the teacup into the guard’s meaty hands, then removed  _ Ryū _ _ -Ichimonji  _ and his wakizashi. He sat them gently at the doorframe, then, armed with a bottle of aspirin and a cup of turmeric tea, he slid the door back with his foot and went inside.

He barely recognized it as the room his father used to occupy. The bed was different: a huge western-style with a canopy. A mess of colorful shirts and wrinkled jackets were draped on chairs, hung off corners, or wadded-up on the ground. Every surface was peppered with empty cigarette packs. By the bedside was an overflowing ashtray; Keiko’s Uzi, tangled up in the gun harness; and a rocks glass, half-full with watered-down whisky. The curtains were drawn, and Keiko was in the bed - or, at least, Genji assumed it was her. She had the bruise-colored sheets pulled over her head.

_ Hungover. _

“Cousin,” he said. “Get up.”

“Piss off,” a muffled voice said from under the blankets.

“Come on. Let’s go get ramen.”

“Come get my fist in your metal ass, freak.” Not warm, exactly, but not cruel. Keiko used it as a new term of endearment for him. He was getting used to it.

“I think that would hurt you more than me.”

“I’ll get that Brit to loosen it up for me first.”

Genji laughed. “Do not make me drag you out of bed. You did it to me enough times in the past that I would like a little revenge.”

“I have armed guards, y’know. Why aren’t they in here? Tell them to come in and kick the shit out of you.”

“I do not see what is in that for me. Besides, I brought you tea.”

“Dirt tea.” Keiko threw the blankets off, then rolled off the bed and onto the floor. She had on underwear and the button-up she’d been wearing the night previous. “I drank too much last night.”

Genji moved to help her stand. “No shit.”

She got to her feet, leaning on him. “My head kills.”

Genji sat her down on the bed, shook out a few pills from the bottle, then handed them to her along with the cup of tea. “I’ll get you some clothes.”

“Mmm.” Keiko tossed the pills down her throat, then sipped at the tea. 

Genji left her and went to her closet. He located a pair of jeans on the shelf among stacks of black suit pants. He dug through the dozens of empty hangers until he found a tank top and bomber jacket buried in the back of the closet.  He tossed them on the bed.

Keiko languidly rolled her head back over her shoulder to look at them. “What the hell is this?”

“Clothes that don’t make you look like you’re dressing up like a Yakuza for Halloween, for once,” Genji said.

“At least I don’t run around naked, old man,” she grumbled, sipping her tea.

“You’re older than me,” he laughed. “Besides, if I were naked, you would know it. Get dressed.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,  _ Gen-Jii-chan. _ ” Keiko set down her cup, and pulled on the jeans.

 

\--

 

Once Keiko was dressed and had run a comb through her dark, messy hair, she and Genji descended the castle’s steps, went out the front gates, then crossed the street to the Rikimaru Ramen. Genji spied a number of bullet holes in the wall, peeking out from newly-hung posters and scrolls. There was a queue for the machine, but nothing like he was used to at lunch time. 

Keiko peered over at Itsuko, the owner’s daughter, as she worked behind the counter. Genji remembered she used to have a crush on her when they were kids, and wondered if there wasn’t still a bit of a flame burning there. Keiko leaned over towards him and asked, “You going to get something this time?”

Genji peered up at the menu. “I do not know.”

“You should,” she said. 

“I am not hungry.”

“When are you ever?” It was a fair question. He didn’t  _ get  _ hungry anymore. “Get your regular. It’s been a while, right?”

_ Your regular. _ She wanted to make sure he knew what his regular was. “I do not usually eat in front of people,” he whispered.

“So we’ll go up to the roof. No one’s going to see you up there.”

“There is no way the old man is going to let you get ramen  _ to go _ .”

“How much you wanna bet on him saying no to  _ me _ ?”

Genji didn’t know what to say to that.  _ Twenty-four hours. _ He had intended to confront her today one way or another. It may as well be here, performing one of their oldest rituals. “Very well,” he said.

Keiko raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Keiko tongued her canine and nodded. “Okay, cool.”

They got to the machine, and Genji peered over Keiko’s shoulder, watching her punch in her usual: Shoyu pork chashu with firm noodles, extra bean sprouts, and spicy as hell. He could feel her watching too, when he leaned forward and put in his own: shio with shrimp and a ton of noodles. When they’d both paid, they walked up to Itsuko at the counter and handed her their tickets. Itsuko called their orders to her father, who was busy slopping broth and noodles into bowls. Keiko asked for their order to go, then grinned at Genji when the old chef did nothing except shoot her a sour look over his shoulder.

The next thing that happened was curious. Itsuko asked her father to man the shop and pass out the orders for a moment. After the “to go” request, Genji fully expected a tirade from the old man at this bizarre request in the middle of the lunch rush, but Itsuko’s father only grunted an affirmative and went back to his orders. Itsuko slipped out from behind the counter, and pulled Keiko aside.

Genji watched their brief conversation, but couldn’t hear what they were saying over the bustle of the ramen shop. From the strained look on Keiko’s face as Itsuko talked, Genji wasn’t sure  _ she _ heard any more of Itsuko’s words than he did. Still, Keiko patted the girl on the shoulder and nodded to her. It was a strange gesture to see from her; warm, and almost maternal. It reminded Genji of how Kanata used to talk to Hanzo, a comparison he did not like.

Keiko returned to his side and Itsuko went back behind the counter, plating and handing out bowls to customers again. “What was that about?” Genji asked.

“Huh? Oh. Wants to know when we’re going to get someone in to finish repairs on the shop. Bullet holes, as it turns out, are bad for business.”

So that was why the shop was emptier than usual. After so much time with a military group like Overwatch, or overseas in places like America, it had been easy to forget that guns were uncommon in Japan. Genji had noticed that even Keiko, here in the middle of her own territory, kept her Uzi hidden under her bomber jacket. Seeing evidence of an all-out gunfight must have been enough to spook even the locals.

Genji peered at his cousin out of the corner of his eye, struck by how much she looked like his aunt in profile, and wondering how he’d never noticed before. The dream kept creeping into the edges of his consciousness. Finally, he asked, “Keiko, do you speak any languages besides Japanese?”

“Uh, I picked up a little Spanish when I was in Mexico. Why?”

_ Spanish! _ He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t put his finger on it before. That was definitely the language she’d been speaking in his memory-dream, but why would she have spoken Spanish to him at the hospital? And how was it he had spoken the same back to her? Genji didn’t know any Spanish at all. And yet, when he thought on it, it was more than strange, dream-logic: that was how he  _ remembered  _ it happening.

“When were you in Mexico?” he asked.

“A few years ago, when I went on the lamb after…” She paused. “After.”

Itsuko handed them their food, and Genji and Keiko went outside and climbed the service ladder to the roof. At the top, Keiko threw off her jacket and complained about the heat, her stomach, her head. She dropped the bag and fell back on her ass. Genji sat cross-legged, pulled out the two bowls and set them down on the gravel roof in front of him with a soft crunch.

Keiko dug in her bag, then put the wrapped chopsticks between her teeth while she dumped the noodles into the steaming broth. Genji thumbed the chipped rim of the familiar, green-and-orange bowl, listening to Keiko next to him, slurping her ramen. It smelled just like he remembered, and he felt some placebo of hunger. A sharp elbow caught him in the side.

“Come on, Cousin,” she said, mouth full of noodles. “Sometime today.”

It was odd. As much as he was desperate to get to Nepal and check on the Shambali, now he wished he had just a bit more time; that he could postpone this somehow. What would she think of the black jaw, the dragon scars webbing what remained of his face? Would it remind her of Hanzo, of what he’d done? The last thing Genji wanted was to rekindle her hatred for his brother. Still, he said he would confront her today, and with the Shambali potentially in peril, he could postpone it no longer.

Hesitant, he reached behind his synthetic ears and pressed. The mechanism clicked, and the jaw of his faceplate went loose. Beside him, Keiko had stopped slurping. He could feel her watching him. He pulled the visor off, turned to face her, then after a pause, looked up.

With her eyes gone big and her lips parted, Genji realized then that Keiko didn’t just look like Kanata - she looked like Hanzo, too. “ _ Holy shit _ ,” she breathed. That big grin split open and she laughed. “It… it really is you, isn’t it?” In the space of the sentence, Keiko went from laughing to crying.

Genji had known Keiko since he’d  _ had _ memories. They’d been attached at the hip for more than a decade. He’d been with her through beatings and breakups, seen her drink through heartbreak, laugh through black eyes and grin with missing teeth. He’d been at her side for nearly every low point of her life, and he’d never,  _ ever _ seen her cry before. He sat, frozen as she stabbed her chopsticks into her ramen and stood up, blinking the tears back and yelling up to the sky. “Oh ho ho… I  _ hate this fucking family! _ ”

Genji got up, the food forgotten. “Keiko…” More breath than voice, he reached out to put his hand on her shoulder.

Keiko slapped it away. “Don’t touch me,  _ freak! _ ” Not a joke. Not a term of endearment. The real, earnest use of the word, her eyes glassy and wild with rage. “Where  _ were  _ you?” The sound of tears choked in her voice was so foreign. Keiko had never let pain stick to her like this. “You were alive, all this time, and you never…” She gasped, looked away, took a few steps back, her feet crunching on the gravel. “It was supposed to be you and me, don’t you remember? Shoulder-to-shoulder. No matter what.  _ Where were you?! _ ”

Her raw emotion - her rage, but more than that, her sorrow, froze him. “Keiko, I… I’m so sorry-”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” she growled. A weft of greasy, black hair had fallen in her face, and with one shaking, wiry hand she smoothed it back. “I don’t care about Talon. I want you  _ gone _ . You, and your asshole friends, right now.”

“Please, let me explain-”

“This isn’t a thing you can explain. Not to me, Genji.” Keiko sniffed and rubbed the underside of her nose with her thumb, hissed like a warning. “Hanzo can  _ have _ you. I’ll burn the world down all on my own. I hope you kissed all your friends on the mountain goodbye.” 

It ran Genji through like a sword, shocked him out of his shock, like a slap across his exposed face. “What do you mean by that?”

Keiko’s eyes glittered, and she smirked at him, then turned and marched through the gravel to the ladder.

Genji followed her, feeling like a fist was clutching his throat. “What do you  _ mean  _ by that, Keiko?” he demanded. Never,  _ ever _ would he have thought his cousin could have anything to do with what was happening to the Shambali. He moved faster, reached out to grab her arm and stop her.

It happened in a moment. He saw her hand moving towards her heart, towards her holster. More muscle-memory than conscious thought, Genji found his wakizashi, and an instant later, they had weapons aimed at one another. 

They froze that way, Keiko at the point of Genji’s sword, and him at the end of Keiko’s gunbarrel, standing above the neighborhood they’d shared as children. They stood there so long, it felt like Genji should have been able to catch his breath, but he couldn’t. The tears in his best friend’s eyes reflected the midday sun. 

_ Don’t make me choose, Keiko. Don’t make me choose between them and you.  _

“Y’know,” Keiko said at last, “this is the second time in two days one of Ryõma’s brats had me at the end of a weapon.” She laughed, took a step back, holstered her gun. Eyes still wet, she took out her cell phone. Genji could hear it ringing over the dull phone speaker. Keiko cleared her throat. “Ueda? Yeah. Get the clan together, everyone we got, then show those westerners the door. If any of them drag their feet or give you trouble, put a blade in ‘em. I want Overwatch out of my city.” She glared at Genji, then hung up the phone.

 

\--

 

Genji was curled up in the rear comm room of the hoverjet. The soft beeps and clicks of Athena’s systems working calmed him some, as did McCree's bourbon voice and warm face smiling down at him from the vidscreen.

“We got a hotel room way outta her territory, Genji, don't you worry. We’re going to the ramen shop tonight after hours to see what they got in the basement, then I'll hop the next commercial flight out to Gibraltar. Nice and easy, Keiko won't even know we didn't leave with you.”

“Thank you, for staying behind,” Genji said.

McCree’s smile went a little crooked. “Well, I got a hair up my ass about what Keiko’s up to, especially after what she said to you on top of the ramen shop. Never much minded doin’ a little sneakin’ around.”

“I appreciate that too, but I meant for staying with Hanzo like I asked.”

McCree grunted and looked somewhere off-screen. “Yeah, he’s a real treat,” he said sarcastically.

Genji smiled weakly. “I know he can be difficult, but, it is important to me.”

“I know.”

“If… you can get him to come on the plane with you-”

Peacekeeper came into view, and McCree used it to push up the brim of his hat. “Look, Genji, not for nothin’, but  _ you _ couldn’t get him to leave with you on the hoverjet. I don’t know what kind o’ chances you think  _ I _ got.”

He wasn’t wrong. The raw please Genji had made to his brother before he left had been like screaming at a brick wall. Hanzo, always stubborn, always dutiful. 

_ It’ll kill him in the end. _

Genji looked down at his hands. “I should never have left without him.”

McCree hummed. “Don't beat yourself up, Genji. Keiko didn't give you much choice, and Hanzo didn't neither. He's a grown man, you can't be responsible for him.”

“He is my brother. If what happened with Keiko proved anything, it proved I need to stay by his side.”

“All that proved was your family’s a damn mess.”

“They are still my family. I should not have abandoned them.”

“The Shambali are important to you, too. They're goin’ through plenty worse right now. Hanzo and Keiko’ll take care of themselves.”

“That is what I am afraid of.”

McCree swallowed, and said nothing. 

“Don’t mean to interrupt.”

Genji turned. Tracer was in the doorway, halfway inside, chewing her lip.

“Well, hell-o, Ms. Tracer,” McCree crooned, tipping his hat to her.

Tracer giggled. “Hiya, McCree. You done with him?”

The gunslinger waggled his eyebrows and nodded. “Sure am, ma’am. Y’all be safe now.”

“You as well, McCree,” Genji said. “I mean it. Keiko is more dangerous than she seems. Hanzo will underestimate her. Please, keep them both safe if you can.”

“I surely will, Genji. Bye.”

“Farewell.” Genji hung up the video call and turned to Tracer, who sank down into his lap.

It felt good to be close to her again, her scent, and warmth, the hum of her accelerator, soothing his frayed nerves. “Shouldn’t you be flying the jet?”

“It’s in auto. We’ll be coming on the coordinates pretty soon, though. You alright?”

Genji fought his instinct to say yes. “I am worried,” he admitted. “About… everything.”

“I know.” On his lap, Tracer brought her legs up, curling into him and snuggling her head under his chin and looking out through the windshield. “I’d hate to be where you are. Gettin’ pulled this way and that. Hard to tell if you’re doin’ the right thing, isn’t it?”

Genji gathered Tracer in his arms. “My master used to tell me that choices are not right or wrong the way we think of good and evil. With the wisdom of our past, we choose where to go, and walk forward.”

“He makes it sound easy,” Tracer laughed.

“It is not, but, it is what we must do.” 

“Wisdom of the past, eh? Don’t know if I buy that. I think lookin’ too hard at the past’ll just make you more cynical.” Tracer ran her hand from his shoulder to his neck, pulling herself closer. “I never want to be like that.”

They sat curled together in the chair for a time before Athena’s voice crooned over the speakers. “I am receiving an incoming transmission from: Shambali Monastery.”

Genji jumped half out his seat.

Tracer hopped up from his lap and stood up, staring bug-eyed at the screen. “Well, put them through already!”

“Very well,” Athena said, then an omnic face flashed onto the screen. Genji’s heart leapt, then deflated. He had hoped it would be his master, but it wasn’t; it was his friend, Kunyatta. 

“Greetings, Genji.”

“Greetings, Kunyatta,” he said quickly. “Are you alright? Is the monastery in danger?”

“Danger?” Kunyatta tilted his head. “No.”

In her periphery, Genji felt Tracer looking at him. He pressed on out of pure bewilderment. “I tried to call you. I called a dozen times, you and every other member of the Shambali I had in my contacts.”

“I have no record of any attempt to connect our systems,” Kunyatta said.

Genji stood up out of his chair and leaned forward on the console. “That's impossible, I-”

Kunyatta’s log of his past connections popped up on one of Athena’s screens. Genji compared it with his own. The frantic calls he’d placed to Kunyatta were in his own call log, but weren’t in Kunyatta’s.

“The calls connected,” Genji insisted, transmitting his own log for Kunyatta to review. The two logs sat side-by-side on the screen, and Genji could see Tracer comparing them.

“How’s that even possible?” she asked.

“I am not certain,” Kunyatta said flatly. “You tried to contact other members of the Shambali?” The calls on Genji’s log all highlighted, a big block of caution-tape yellow.

“Yes,” Genji said.

“All of those calls have been met with the same result?”

“ _ Yes. _ How could someone have blocked the members of the Shambali from receiving calls? To what end?”

“Your concern is kind, Genji, but misplaced.”

Tracer leaned into frame. “So, everyone in the monastery is alright, then?”

“All the monks here are unharmed, yes.”

Genji put his visored face in his hands.  _ Wisdom of the past. Yeah, right, _ he thought. The events in Russia, the inability to contact Zenyatta and the other monks, and Keiko’s mysterious quip had put him on-edge, and he panicked. He’d left Hanzo and McCree, left things unmended with Keiko, to chase his own fears. Zenyatta would be disappointed. “I worried too much,” he said aloud, looking to Tracer. “I should not have asked Overwatch to rush out here.”

“You misunderstand, Genji,” Kunyatta said. “Your concern is misplaced, not unwarranted.”

Genji straightened up. “What do you mean?”

“While a broad-scale system infiltration or malfunction across all Tekhartha units is  _ possible _ , it is not the most likely conclusion.”

“What is?” 

“Based on the data, I would conclude that the one malfunctioning, Genji, is  _ you _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh.
> 
> Next chapter will be May I, and will overlap a bit with chapter a little. Let me know if it gets confusing X:
> 
> [Streaming tonight, 9PM EST.](https://www.twitch.tv/ingridarcher) If you can, I'd love for you to join me! I'll be doing the rest of my placements/comp so get ready to hear me channel Keiko by swearing a lot haha 8D


	18. Love

Hey guys! Welcome to a special update for Time Machine.

  
It's been an extraordinary few days for the Overwatch fandom. Our very favorite speedster, Lena “Tracer” Oxton, is in a relationship with hottie redhead Emily and has been canonically confirmed as a lesbian!   
This is amazing news for the LGBT+ community - Tracer isn't just any hero, she's the spirit of Overwatch, the girl on the box. The face of the game is gay. That's amazing!

  
Fan fiction is more than just wish fulfillment. Fanfic authors have long written to see characters and explore themes that they do not see in the media they love. This, by proxy, means that fan fiction is often about marginalized groups. I like to believe the popularity of fanworks has shown major media that these characters and themes have an audience. I want to believe that fan fiction, in its own small way, helped make a character like Tracer possible.

  
_Time Machine_ is no different. It is and always was a story about a queer man and woman being in a relationship, and it not erasing them being queer. In the context of _Time Machine_ , Tracer was bi and Genji was pan. They discuss this frankly with one another; they have hangups and exes of variable genders. They understand one another. Genji’s storyline in particular is about duality - as a cyborg living in a world on the cusp of war between human and omnic, Genji stands as something in between. This often makes him feel as if he has no place where he belongs. As the war approaches the pressure to “choose a side” intensifies, but just because Genji is made up of both flesh and circuits doesn't make him half and half of something. It is what he is - he is whole. Obviously, you can see how this narrative ties into an exploration of bi & pansexuality.

  
Showing Bi & Pan people as complex and interesting characters is and always will be important to me. I've gotten a lot of wonderful messages from queer people stating that _Time Machine_ made them feel represented, and that's the most I could ever ask for.

  
However, it's important to recognize that some things are bigger than ourselves. Tracer being gay is a _huge_ deal. Gaming is a notoriously unwelcoming space for queer folks, and for Blizzard to stand up and say “this is who Tracer is” is momentous and rare.

  
As I said earlier, fandom and fan fiction are often about marginalized groups. Fan creators will change a character’s sexuality from straight to gay, bi, or pan because it's so rare to find queer character in mass media or to see media appeal to their likes or desires. Changing the sexuality of one of a myriad of status-quo straight characters to “not straight” in fanwork is very different from changing the rare queer character’s canonical sexuality to literally anything else. For this reason, I believe Tracer’s identity as a lesbian is sacrosanct.

  
Therefore, as of now, _Time Machine_ is being discontinued.

  
This story had long been tied in to another fic, _May I_. Many major plot points that were to appear in _Time Machine_ will now appear in _May I_ , but of course, some things will not fit well into that tale. Here are the events and backstory that will not make it in.

  
The oft-mentioned Thomas, that guy in the photograph, was Tracer’s older brother. He was a member of the RAF, and Tracer was very close to him growing up. On a night he was supposed to come home to London, Tracer made a paper sign and went down to the tube station to wait for him. He ended up being called back on a recon mission, and when he finally got on the phone with his little sister to tell her he wouldn't be home after all, our explosive little punker blew up on him, embarrassed at having sat in the station for hours holding a “welcome home” sign for someone that never showed up. Thomas goes on the recon mission, and is subsequently shot down and killed by an omnic drone attack. This is the reason she’s so insistent that Genji reunite with his brother - because she regrets that her last conversation with her own much-loved older brother was an argument.

  
We learn this through her other siblings, twins who were a bit of comedy relief.

  
Genji was going to later meet Bastion, and communicate with them through broadcasted code. They were going to discuss the nature of the first omnic crisis to help Genji better understand the events happening now. I was very much looking forward to writing Bastion’s dialogue style, and may do a oneshot of this conversation just for fun.

  
Tracer was going to help Genji dye his hair green. She would also have a few more fun interactions with Hanzo.

  
Tracer’s storyline was about embracing stability and, with Genji’s help, facing her emotions and anxiety instead of pushing them back. In the third act, Tracer was going to be disconnected from her Chronal Accelerator and thrown into another endless time web. Through this event, she faces her greatest fear, explores variable possibilities, and sees that the past and future are intrinsically connected - to make a future for yourself, you must face and accept the past instead of avoiding pain or putting on a brave face. She escapes again with Winston’s help, and returns to save the day via a badass airborne dogfight.

  
Briefly, when we knew Tracer was queer but not confirmed to be a lesbian, I had considered a variation on this event where, in the time stream, she realizes she's in the wrong timeline, and if she continues this path the Second Omnic Crisis would destroy the world. The correct timeline would, of course, be the one in which Overwatch saves the world, but also, be one where she and Genji could not be together. A bittersweet ending congruous to the end of the ship, and where of course, she ended up happily ever after with Emily instead. In the end, I decided that this a) was not in line with the ship theme of hope and optimism and b) would not happen soon enough, and therefore, send the wrong message as the fic continued to update.

  
The rest of the plot points will be explored in _May I_ , so I'll save them for now, though there may need to be some re-explanation to make these plot points make sense in the context of someone who hasn't read _Time Machine_. Apologies for any redundancy.

  
I want to say, being a part of Deja-Ryu, meeting all the wonderful fans and creators, has been really incredible and I wouldn't trade it for the world. I've made amazing friends like Chiptooth, digitaljellyfish, Doc, Ehu, snowarrow, warriorwolves and more. We were a tiny community, but I liked that - it made reaching out and making friends a lot easier. Our community was close-knit and full of great people. I hope we all continue to stay close.

  
To all my wonderful, wonderful readers, I want to extend my heart and say you will never know how much you all mean to me. I posted this fic originally to fill a void in a ship I really loved, thinking our fandom would be very small. It was my first ever shipfic, and the response was so much more than I ever expected. Seeing comments from my readers, building relationships with you all, and just knowing there were people who connected to my writing has been one of the most fulfilling things to me. I hope my other stories can connect with you as well.

  
So, what now? Is this the end of _Time_ _Machine_?

  
Well, not _exactly_.

  
In many ways, _Time Machine_ was a first draft. I still think the optimistic story of a bi or pan cyborg amidst a robot/human war is a valuable and interesting story to tell, but it might be better told in an original world, outside Overwatch altogether. I'll keep you updated.

  
In the meantime, please keep an eye on this page and connect with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shimadaviper) and [tumblr](Http://azuka-bladefury.tumblr.com). I promise many more stories to come! Please keep in mind that while lovers of the story may be sad, ultimately it ended for a wonderfully important, joyous reason, and we should all be proud to be Overwatch fans. I think my favorite part of the Tracer reveal was that it was done in the context of the holidays, a time where we reflect on what's truly important - family, generosity, kindness, and selflessness.

  
In other words: love.


End file.
